


Tom Riddle is Not a Psychopath

by Siamese_and_Cookies



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A fair amount of foul language, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alternate Universe - Adopted Family, Blood and Violence, Canon What Canon, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, I know nothing about the law or about psychotherapy, Lawyer Hermione Granger, No Plot/Plotless, Older Hermione Granger, Romance, Tom May or May not commit murder, Tom's Idea of Romance, everyone is ooc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2020-08-20 17:49:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 28,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20231902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siamese_and_Cookies/pseuds/Siamese_and_Cookies
Summary: A collection of random moments from the lives of one Hermione Jean Granger and one Tom Marvolo Riddle Jr. They suffer from good times and bad ones, and they suffer through them together.





	1. In Which Tom Goes to Therapy and Hates Every Second of It

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Great Uselessness](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19192504) by [Seanymphe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seanymphe/pseuds/Seanymphe). 

> This has no rhyme or reason and I'll update literally whenever I have anything down. I'll probably only go over the chapters once before I post. I write most of these during my commutes between places and I do it on my phone so expect really poor writing and characterisation - I'm honestly not even trying. Characters do swear a bit, but not too much so there's that.
> 
> Also, it should be mentioned that I was inspired by another Tomione fic called The Great Uselessness by Seanymphe. Since I'm still new to AO3 I'm not sure how to properly put in the necessary links, but check out their work because I absolutely love how they write Tom!
> 
> With that said, enjoy!

The clock on the wall ticked rhythmically. The dull, distant traffic flowed in through the open windows. Sunlight slanted in and coated everything it touched in a rich, orange glow.

Tom watched Dumbledore and Dumbledore watched Tom.

Seconds bled into minutes.

Blue eyes twinkled behind half-moon spectacles.

Tom resisted the urge to tug at his school tie.

“Tom,” Dumbledore said eventually, breaking the silence, “I understand this is a difficult conversation, but it’s one we must have.”

“As I already mentioned, Doctor, I don’t need to talk about it. It happened many years ago and I’ve healed.”

“Tom, no one really heals from this sort of pain. And seeing as your parents-”

“_Adopted_-parents, Doctor,” Tom interjected, forcing the sneer out of his voice, “You said yourself that I have to make the distinction clear from the very beginning.”

“Adopted-parents,” he amended easily, “are moving as well, old wounds are going to resurface.”

“When I was abandoned in that orphanage, Doctor, I was five. I’m seventeen now and I’m not being _abandoned_, I _chose_ to stay here.”

Dumbledore let out an almost unnoticeable sigh as he scribbled in his notebook, “Just so long as you have established this difference yourself, Tom. How have things been with Hermione?”

Tom made a special effort not to clench his jaw, “Fine. She found an apartment we can share for the time being.”

“And how long is the ‘time being’?”

“Until I want to leave.”

“And what are your plans for the future, Tom? Have you thought about university?”

The urge to eye-roll became paramount. Tom fought it down. He had to keep up appearances, afterall.

“Can’t say, haven’t decided yet.” Tom lied, “Hermione said she’d help me when the time draws closer.”

“That’s alright. Having a clear plan might help you more, stabilise you.”

Arguing that Tom was stable would get him nowhere. He knew, he’d done it before. So he just nodded his head and said he’d think about it. The hour struck with a soft dong and Dumbledore made a show of slowly closing his notebook, painfully slowly in case Tom had the sudden urge to unload his deepest secrets in the full minute it took the old buffoon to close the bloody thing. Tom didn’t. The notebook closed soundlessly.

“Same time next Thursday?” Dumbledore smiled. The curve of his lips didn’t reach his eyes.

“Of course. Thank you ever so much, Doctor.” 

“Not at all, Tom. Not at all.”

Tom wanted to run out, distance himself from that insufferable old man. He didn’t. He scooped up his backpack and took measured steps out of the office, closing the door quietly behind himself and smiling pleasantly to the receptionist. Hermione was in the waiting area, her curly hair piled up onto her head and the topmost button of her blouse undone. She was busy with her phone, tapping away at the screen with a slight frown on her face.

“Ready to go?” She asked once she’d caught sight of him.

It wasn’t until they were safely outside the building that Tom turned on his step-sister.

“Why do I still have to go to these stupid sessions?” He hissed, “Jean and Niel are gone - I don’t have to go anymore.”

“You have to go until _I_ can see a change in you, Tom. Mum and Dad may have gone, but they left you in my care.”

“You're infringing on my basic human rights.”

Hermione ticked a brow at him, curious and amused in equal measures, “Alright, and how am I doing that?”

“I have the right to treatment but I also have the right to abstain from it. And I want to abstain. Now.”

She snorted at that, “Have you been rifling through my books again?”

“Hermione,” He growled.

“Alright, but that isn’t applicable until you’re eighteen. And, oh look at that, it’s six more months until then.”

“Look, just because I threatened Malfoy when I was ten-”

“Threatened to kill, mind you,” Hermione grumbled as she took her card out. Tom already had his Oyster in hand.

They passed into the station and followed along the route they had memorised down into the bowels of the earth and London’s Underground train system.

“Semantics. Just because that happened when I was ten doesn’t mean I’m going to act on my urges. Yes, I was a troubled child but I’m not stupid.”

They stood on the near empty train platform and waited. They had to wait only two more minutes before their train would arrive.

“No, you’re definetly not stupid, Tom. But you’re also not a well-adjusted member of society, are you?” She continued on before he could speak, “Harry told me about the incident at the bar.”

“Fuck Harry,” Tom murmured under his breath, glaring at the approaching train. The automated voice blared its message and the white and blue train came to a stop.

“He’s not interested.”

“Is that your idea of a joke?”

“Get in the train, Tom.”

And while he wanted to be annoyed with her - was annoyed with her - he also liked the smile she tried to smother as she herded him into the near-empty train first. She took the end seat and Tom took the one right beside her. A book was in her hand before the doors even shut and Tom knew it would be pointless to continue any discussion. And they were too far underground for him to get any data.

With nothing else to do, Tom stuck his earbuds in and turned on sounds of the ocean. It always transported him to a different time, a different place, the place where he had committed his first crime.

The train rumbled along through dark tunnels, their bodies rocking with its movements and eventually, after their fifth stop, Hermione rested her head against his shoulder and fell asleep. Had it been anyone else, he would have carefully let their heads drop and luxuriate in their rude awakening and awkward apologise.

But it was Hermione, and she was _not_ anyone else. 

And so he tucked her bookmark into the correct page and held onto it as she slept through the next four stops - the sounds of waves crashing against the cliffside sounding in his ears throughout.


	2. Snakes Do Not Make Good Pets, a Dissertation by Hermione J. Granger

“TOM!” a shrill voice rang through their apartment, “NAGINI IS IN THE BLOODY BATH AGAIN!”

Tom opened his eyes slowly, glaring out around himself. It was early - far too early for Hermione and her screeching. If he ignored it, she would only get louder. It would be easier if he just dealt with it as soon as possible.

He got to his feet, stooping to grab the t-shirt he had ripped off last night due to the heat and tugged it on over his head. Rubbing at his eyes, he slowly made his way out of his pitch-black room into the painfully bright living room they shared. There, standing in the middle of it with her hair positively fluffed up in anger, stood Hermione - arms crossed and hip jutted. Judging by the state of her clothes - her shirt inside out and a towel wrapped around the bottom half of her - she had been about to go in for a shower.

“Your snake,” she seethed, “needs to be kept in her box.”

“She doesn’t like it in there.” He deadpanned back as he made his way to the bathroom, Hermione hot on his heels. “How would Crookshanks feel if we locked him up in his carrier?”

“Crookshanks is a cat! Nagini is a snake! Their situations are completely different!”

“It’s too early in the morning for your yelling, Hermione,” Tom sighed, “I’ll get the snake out, so there's no need to wake the neighbours.”

“Too early? Tom, you should have been up already! You’ve got school!”

“I already sent them a message saying I won’t be going in today.”

“Did you use my phone without permission _again_? Tom, we have talked about this!”

“I had a class with Umbridge today. And unless you want me to blow up the fucking school lab, I’d say it was a good thing I didn’t go. The woman’s mental.”

That shut Hermione up long enough for Tom to bend down and scoop Nagini up and out of the bath. The python looked at him and stuck her tongue out, checking his scent before happily coiling around his neck and arms. Tom turned around and Hermione shivered violently, her disgust evident.

“You know the sort of people who own snakes, Tom? Weirdos.”

“Why, Hermione,” Tom snarked, walking backwards into his room, Nagini happily bobbing her head along with each step he took, “If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think you were being _prejudiced_.”

He turned right back around and just missed the incredulous look Hermione sent his back.

“Why couldn’t you like dogs? Or bunnies?”

“Because dogs are stupid and I don’t want to look after something without any higher faculties. See you later, Hermione.”

He closed his bedroom door before she could respond and waited a moment or two for his eyes to readjust to the darkness. Once he could walk through his room without banging his shin against the furniture, Tom settled Nagini into her cage, gave her a dead mouse for her troubles and turned to his bed.

Two, glowing eyes watched him.

“HERMIONE!” He yelled at the top of his lungs, disgust coating each syllable, “GET YOUR STUPID CAT OUT OF MY FUCKING ROOM!”


	3. In Which Hermione Makes a Mess and Tom Has to Clean It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *insert shameless plug-in for my tumblr, "sunflowersandcookies"* I'm new to tumblr and my blog is still smol so treat it kindly please. Eventually I'll post 'deleted-scenes' or fic-related stuff (when I reach that stage, of course) so keep an eye on it. I also post attempts at poetic writings, so if you want a good laugh, check it out!

Tom sighed, exhausted after another trying day plotting and acting, and was eager to enjoy a nice, quiet night at home. Maybe he could convince Hermione to not make dinner - he was sure his stomach couldn’t handle any of her cooking that day. So when he put his key into the lock and turned the handle - the blast of obnoxious laughter that burst from his house caught him off-guard.

A frown tugged on his lips as he trudged inside, locking the door behind himself.

Littered around the living room coffee table were drinks, snacks and Hermione and her two nit-wit friends. It was the ginger - Ron - who spotted him first.

“Riddle’s back.”

Hermione moved her neck so fast Tom wondered if she got whiplash. Her eyes were glazed and her cheeks were pink and her hair was an absolute mess. But she had a big, giddy smile on her face and her shoulders weren’t as tense as they had been the past few days. It had been a particularly trying court case but Hermione had won in the end. If the ecstatic texts he'd received during the middle of his biology class were anything to go by.

“Tom!” She called out, “Come and have a drink with us!”

Tom’s lip curled in disgust as he looked at the overturned beer bottles and half-drunk bottle of vodka (diluted vodka, because he’d had more than half of it himself on various occasions), “Will PC Potter mind?”

Harry and Hermione exchanged looks and Harry shrugged. Hermione’s smile widened and she waved Tom over. Still, he hesitated.

As a rule, Tom hated anyone Hermione felt even slightly positive towards.

Dumbledore would call it irrational jealousy.

Tom called it his superior judgement. 

Dumb and dumber here, Tom hated especially. They’d been clinging onto Hermione since the day Tom arrived at the Granger household and even now, nine years later, Hermione hadn’t realised she was meant for better than them.

"I'm alright," he said in the end, hiking his bag higher up his shoulder, "I've got to study, so keep your drunken shenanigans on a low volume, please."

"Oh, are you sure?" She must have been extremely excited by winning if she sounded _disappointed_ that Tom wanted to study instead of fool around.

Any other time and Tom would have gladly joined, no coaxing needed. In fact, he didn't even have to study. He knew all the material by heart and had practiced enough papers in his off time to gather that he would be receiving the highest grades in all of his chosen subjects. Hermione had balked when she found out how many he had taken - specifically that he had taken one more subject than she had when she was giving her GCEs.

"Positive," he replied, allowing his eyes to linger on Ron and Harry to make his point clear. She rolled her eyes and let him go.

Nagini perked up from her glass box when he opened the door. Tom raised a brow her way. He had made sure to let her out of her box when he’d left.

“Did Hermione grow a spine and put you in the box herself?” He asked the snake as he let his bag drop onto his study desk. Nagini flicked her tongue out at him, yellow eyes watching him, “Want to get out of the box?”

Nagini flicked her tongue again and Tom reached into the box, scooping her up and letting her free. She made a dart for his bed, curling up near his pillows.

“We’re not sleeping yet, Nagini. Wait until Hermione’s friends are gone.”

A crush sounded and Tom jerked away from the bed. Confusion and mild worry propelled him towards the door. He wrenched it open and caught the tail-end of Hermione’s tirade. Ron was on one end, Hermione on the other, Harry caught in the middle. The bottle of vodka lay broken on the floor.

“And don’t you _ever_ suggest anything like that again!”

“Hermione!” Harry yelled, rising to his feet to restrain her, “Calm down!”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Ron screamed.

That was the wrong thing to say. Her hair had puffed up until it had turned into a wild, auburn mane.

“Wrong with me? Wrong with _me_? How dare you!”

“Hermione.” Tom said sharply, “What’s happening here?”

She swallowed down whatever cutting remark she was about to say and turned to look at him.

“Ron and Harry were just _leaving_.”

“Hermione-” Harry began, brows furrowed.

“_Now_.”

"Come on, Harry. _Clearly_ Hermione isn't in a good mood."

Ron grabbed his jacket with a rough jerk and left. If it were possible, steam would have been coming out of his ears. Harry turned to Hermione, his expression clearly promising an interrogation at a later date.

Their front door closed with a bang and Hermione stood there panting. Tom watched her and then turned to the broken bottle. Sighing, he set off towards the kitchen to get a mop and dustpan.

“Stay there,” he called over his shoulder, “Or go sit on the couch, I’ll clean this up.”

“Leave it.” Hermione muttered, “Just leave it.”

“Go and sit.”

“_Leave it_!”

“Hermione,” He barked, “Go and fucking sit.”

She glared up at him through his hair as he stood there with a dustpan and mop. She turned on her heel and stomped off towards the couch. She sat down, her legs drawn up and her chin on her knees as she watched him mop up the remnants of the diluted vodka.

Tom worked in silence for a while, waiting until he knew it was safe to test the waters.

“Mind telling me what that was all about?”

“It was nothing. My hand slipped.”

“And the yelling? Weasel’s a bastard but I don’t think I’ve heard you go off on somebody like that since Abrxas.”

“It’s nothing, Tom. Drop it. Please.” She added after a beat.

Tom collected all the pieces of glass and threw them in the rubbish bin.

“Should I have set Nagini on him?”

She scoffed and set her head against the back of the couch.

“Stop talking, I’m not in the mood.”

Tom stopped and stared at her, “Will you just tell me? I’m running out of patience.”

“He called you a psychopath, alright?”

Tom blinked slowly, trying to figure out how that was a problem.

“And?”

“What?”

“And? What about that was so horrible?” Tom had been called worse. Had suffered through worse. Being called a psychopath was like being called tall - it made little to no difference to him.

“Because you’re _not_ a psychopath, Tom. Just because he doesn’t like you doesn’t mean he gets to say such awful things about you.”

“Being called a psychopath isn’t all that bad. Mrs Cole used to call me worse.” 

Tom pressed down firmly on the memories that threatened to surface of dark, dank cupboards and ropes that tied at his wrists and ankles. 

Any anger Hermione had evaporated and all that was left was a look of not-pity (because Tom had made it very clear early on as to his feelings towards that emotion). 

“And that’s exactly why I won’t stand for it. Because you’re not a psychopath, no matter what _anyone_ says.”

“Anyone? Why? Who else has called me a psychopath?”

The discomfort on Hermione’s face spoke volumes. Tom mentally went through a checklist of possible candidates. He grabbed her phone, ignoring her squwakes of protest and the ethical lecture she launched into as he skimmed through first her messages and then her emails.

And there, sitting near the top underneath confidential, work-related emails was one from Dumbledore.

He opened it, backing away from Hermione and her grabby hands as he read it.

‘_Dear Ms. Granger, I hope you are doing well,_’ Tom skipped through the paragraph long formalities, holding Hermione back with one arm and keeping the one with the phone above her head so he could continue to read it, ‘_I have been in contact with Tom’s previous psychiatrist,_’ meddling, old fool - how dare he? Tom sped through the useless bits there and then paused when he caught something, ‘_we both believe Tom may suffer from psychopathy. There is no need for alarm, psychopaths are often misrepresented in the media, but it is something I’d like to explore further._’

The email went on for a few more paragraphs but Tom had stopped reading. Hermione used his momentary shock to grab her phone, hit him hard on the arm and continue with her shrieking. _That snapped him out of it_.

“Did they read this?” Tom interrupted as he rubbed at his throbbing arm, “Did Ronald Weasley or Harry Potter read this?”

“You can’t talk over me when you know I’m right!”

“Did they read it!”

“No!”

Tom calmed.

“Good. I want to keep this a secret.”

Hermione gripped her phone hard, “You won’t need to keep it a secret because it isn’t _true_. You just had a rough childhood, that's no excuse to label you as something you aren't!.”

"Yes, well it seems not everyone seems to agree."

“Well, Dumbledore is absolutely wrong. Because you care for people, and psychopaths lack empathy,” at the look he sent her, she amended herself, “Alright me. I know you care for me. And your friends.”

“What friends?”

Hermione sighed, moving away from him and back to the couch, “Malfoy and Bellatrix, who else?”

“You think I give a crap about Malfoy and Bellatrix?” Tom let out a hearty laugh, “I care more about Crookshanks than those idiots. They have their uses, yes, but we’re not _friends_.”

“You're such a millennial, Tom. Being edgy was cool back in the early two-thousands. It’s sad now.”

That brought a Malfoy-like sneer onto his face, “Oh, fuck off, Hermione.”

“Look at that, you even _sneer_ like Malfoy. Are you sure you’re not the best of friends?”

“I’m going into my room. The next time you have a lovers quarrel, please don’t drag alcohol into the mix. It's pathetic.”

Hermione clenched her jaw and was about to jump into another explosive argument as to why she and Ronald would never be in any sort of romantic relationships, but Tom had already shut his door.

He rested his back against it and thought.

Dumbledore thought he was a psychopath, eh?

Tom would show the old fool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I incredibly obsessed with italicising everything? Yes, yes I am. Is it a pain-in-the-ass to italicise on AO3? Yes, yes it is.


	4. In Which Tom's Vices Become Apparent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll, I didn't even want to post this but here we are.  
This whole thing is trash anyway  
¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

The rain pattered lightly against the windows. The generic, blue clock on the wall ticked away the seconds. The receptionist clacked away at her keyboard.

Tom took a slow, deep breath in, held it, and then let it go.

His phone vibrated and he checked it.

Draco Malfoy had sent him a text.

**Ferret: father is gonna beat my arse**

**Ferret: wat bout u?**

**Ferret: granger said anything yet?**

Tom ignored his messages and looked back up at Headmaster Dippet's door. Hermione had been in there for ten minutes now. It wasn't that Tom was worried - Tom didn't get worried - it was simply odd that it took her so long. It had been Tom's first offence and a minor one at that. 

And Dolohov would be properly punished for his negligence, Tom would make sure of it.

Just as Tom was beginning to not-worry, the door opened and out strode Hermione. She had come straight from her office and was still in her pencil skirt and blouse. Not to mention the dark high heels that went with the outfit, the high heels that complimented her figure in a way that caught most people's attention.

Tom hated when she wore them, but god if he didn't love it as well.

Hermione was smiling her forced-pleasant smile as she eagerly made her escape from Dippet and his simpering. Tom got to his feet, smoothing down his school tie and blazer.

"Thank you ever so much again, Headmaster, for keeping this incident quiet."

"Of course, of course. Tom is a very good student, but he's young and they do make mistakes." Dippet turned to Tom, "Just make sure you don't do anything of the sort again, Tom. You've got a very bright future ahead of you and it just wouldn't do if you threw it away because of something trivial."

"Thank you, Headmaster. I promise I won't do it again. It really was a mistake, I didn't think I'd succumb to peer-pressure." Tom lied, looking equal parts shamed and sincere. Dippet fell for it instantly but Hermione narrowed her eyes at him.

"Even the strongest of wills do, Tom. I know you didn't mean it." Dippet clapped his hands together and turned back to Hermione, "Thank you for coming so quickly. Terribly sorry about all this, it’s really only for show.”

“Not at all, Headmaster. It’s important to treat all students equally.”

“Of course! Of course, they are all equal.”

“Well, I had better get back to work. Is Tom free to go?”

“Yes, yes he is. Stay out of trouble, young man!”

“I will, Headmaster.”

Hermione put a hand between Tom’s shoulders and all but pushed him out of the office. She ignored his glare and growl of warning and instead lead the way out of the school, ignoring the lingering glances the boys (and some of the girls) sent her way. Tom schooled his expression into a mask of indifference, pretending nothing out of the ordinary had happened. In fact, he even nodded and politely greeted some of his classmates to keep up appearances. 

It was almost amusing how quickly their looks of confusion morphed into joy at being acknowledged by him. Idiots, all of them.

Hermione was waiting for him by the school gates as he leisurely strolled towards her, his hands in his pockets and his tie loosened. She was tapping away viciously on her phone, her hair coming loose from the braid she had subdued them into. When Tom stopped in front of her, she glared up from her phone, sent the message and aggressively shoved her phone back into her bag.

“Smoking, Tom? Really?”

“You’re being so over-dramatic. We’ll talk about this at home.”

She crossed her arms, “No, I’m not and no, we won’t.”

“You’re going to be late for work.”

“I took the rest of the day off because I _really_ don’t have the patience for anymore lunacy.”

Tom rolled his eyes, “You’re acting as if I’ve committed murder. All I did was smoke one cigarette. That hardly requires you to take a day off.”

“It starts with under-aged smoking and then it goes from there. What next? Drugs?” He didn’t think it would be in his favour to admit he had already pursued his fair share of herbs and pills (Malfoy had his uses, afterall), “The next time I get called in, it’ll be because you’ve been caught shooting up behind the gym!”

“Lower your voice,” Tom hissed, narrowing his eyes at her, “You’re being completely ridiculous right now. I smoked one, no - listen to me - one cigarette! I have not, and will not do drugs. I have no interest in having my mind muddled.” He motioned his head towards her bag, “Call them up and tell them you’re well enough to go back to work.”

“Do not try to wriggle out of this, Tom Riddle. You may have your Headmaster in your pocket, but I have known you for long enough to know what you’re doing. So kindly shut up and come home with me. Now.”

“I have classes.”

“No, you don’t.” She snarled back, “_Mouth shut_, please.”

“What’ll you do to me if I don’t?”

“Right now, I have an insatiable urge to hit you.”

Tom raised his brows, “I’d have you charged for assault.”

“And I’d counter-sue you for being a git!”

Students passed by, eyeing them curiously. Tom had had enough of being a spectacle.

“I’ll shut up, so let’s continue this at home.”

Hermione clearly wanted to yell some more but grit her teeth and whirled off in the direction of the bus-stop. With a quick glance around to make sure no crowds were gathering, Tom followed. When the bus came, Hermione made a special effort to sit as far away from him as possible. And when they got to the station, she hadn’t spoken a single word, content with glaring at her phone for the whole trip. 

Tom didn’t mind, he put his ocean sounds on and relaxed with the crashing of waves against cliff sides as he planned how to properly exact Dolohov’s punishment. It had to be something that would stick in the idiot’s mind. Throwing him down the steps would only hurt him physically, Tom wanted to do something _more_, to remind him just _who_ was in charge and _why_ being competent _mattered_.

Maybe he could slip a mention towards Antonin’s inclination towards the same sex to Mr Nikolai Dolohov - a strict Orthodox Chrisitian and Antonin’s father. 

When had he last joined the Dolohov’s for dinner? It had surely been a while, and Tom was more than happy to meet with the family. 

His phone vibrated and he checked to see Draco had sent even more messages.

**Ferret: y r u ignoring me?**

**Ferret: did Granger flip her shit?**

**Ferret: fuk**

**Ferret: do u want me to bail u out?**

Tom ignored the messages and checked the station the train stopped in at. One away from their stop. Hermione was already standing by the doors on the far end. He said nothing as he packed up his earphones and got up to wait next to her. The train jerked into motion, sending Hermione careening into him.

Tom held her close to himself, steadying her as the train stuttered a bit before smoothing into motion. Hermione tried to wriggle out of his grip and Tom relented after a moment. She smoothed her blouse and skirt and gripped onto the overhead railing, glaring ahead.

Tom leaned towards her, a barely-there smile on his face.

“You could say ‘thank you’.”

“Shut up. I’m still angry with you.”

The walk to their apartment was an awkward one, but Tom endeavoured to make it seem like it was anything but. He smiled at their neighbours and asked how their day was going. Hermione, meanwhile, stomped on ahead, her heels click-clacking sharply against the linoleum. She jabbed the elevator call button and scowled when it took longer than a second to arrive.

“Get in,” she said. Tom complied quietly.

They weren’t alone in the elevator and that was the only reason Tom didn’t continue with their _discussion_.

But as soon as their front door shut behind them, Tom was on Hermione.

“Get out of my way,” She snarled.

“Not until you stop acting like this.”

“Do you take some sort of sadistic pleasure from bothering me? I said _move_!”

Hermione put her hands against his shoulders and shoved, hard. But Tom was prepared and braced himself adequately. Didn’t mean it didn’t hurt though.

“You are such an asshole.”

“And you can be a bit of a bitch, but that’s not what we’re talking about.” Regardless, Tom backed away and made for the sink, desperate for a drink. “I take it Dippet won’t take any action?”

“No,” Hermione replied, settling onto their couch, sighing loudly, “He won’t. I didn’t even have to convince him to let you off the hook, he was more than happy to do it himself. It turns out being a teacher’s pet has it’s uses.”

She had kicked her heels off, thrown her big, black work bag onto the far end of the sofa and settled her chin on the palm of her hand as she watched him through dark, slitted eyes. 

Hermione looked like a lioness. 

Tom contemplated playing the role of prey.

“You’re being awfully catty.” he said, pushing that thought away, “From some of the stories your parents told me, you took advantage of being a teacher’s pet yourself. It’s hardly fair that you’re lecturing me on being a trouble-maker when you were one yourself.”

She scoffed, “I _never_ smoked. On school grounds or otherwise.”

“No, you just set a man on fire because he made fun of you.”

Tom watched the steady blush that creeped from her neck to the roots of her hair. That had been one of the reasons Tom decided Hermione was worth investing time and effort into - she didn’t take things lying down. Her intelligence, tenacity and in-born sense of loyalty really only sweetened the deal.

“Professor Snape was an asshole and he deserved it. Also, it was an accident! He was standing way too close to my Bunsen burner!”

Tom settled himself against the island counter, eager to enjoy the show, “Are you actually making excuses about setting a man on fire? What if he had gotten seriously injured?”

“Well, he didn’t so it doesn’t matter any - stop trying to change the subject! You’re still in big trouble!”

“And what are you going to do? Ground me? Take away my pocket money?”

“I’ll tell Dumbledore.”

Tom’s blood ran cold. He held the edge of the island until his knuckles turned white.

“You wouldn’t.”

“I will. It’s for your own good, Tom.”

“No, it isn’t. And if you care even the smallest bit for me, you won’t.”

“Promise me you’ll quit. If you promise you won’t smoke again - or do anything else that could jeopardize your future, I won’t tell him.”

“I promise.”

“I mean it, Tom.”

He clenched his jaw, “So do I. I won’t smoke or do anything stupid. I promise.”

“I’m doing this because I care about you, Tom. You’re my brother -”

“_Adopted_ brother,” Tom grit out, “We’re not related, remember?”

She shook her head, “It doesn’t matter if we don’t share blood. I love you and it really hurts me whenever I see you treating your life so flippantly. You’re smarter than most, yes, but one day you’re going to slip up and even I won’t be able to help you.”

“It won’t come to that. I’ll be extra careful from now on, you have my word.”

“That’s not what I - oh, nevermind, I’m too tired to argue with you anymore." She brought a hands up and scrubbed at her face, "Make me some tea?”

Tom nodded wordlessly and got to work.


	5. In Which Tom Gets His Revenge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A super short one this time!  
Poor Dolohov - I actually feel bad.

“Tom!”

Tom looked up from his phone conversation with Bellatrix and towards the ward doors. Hermione ran towards him, crashing into him. She wrapped her arms tightly around him, grip bruising and body heaving as if she’d run a great distance. Tom slowly put one arm around her and finished the message with the other.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Hermione let just enough to give him a once over before she crushed him into another hug.

“I’m alright - it was Dolohov who got hurt, after all.”

That wasn’t enough for her, Hermione took a step back and gave him a once over. She reached up, holding onto the sides of Tom’s face and turning it this way and that. Tom let her - wondering once again why he let her get away with so much. Even the nurses weren’t allowed to touch him this freely.

“What happened? I got a call from your school saying you and your friend had gotten - did you get checked up? Did they follow proper procedures? Did they discharge you?”

Tom covered her hands with his own and lowered them. He didn’t let go though. Hermione’s eyebrows were furrowed, her cheeks flushed from running and her eyes flitting about him, checking for invisible injuries.

“Slow down. I only have light bruises, I’m okay, Hermione. Like I said, Dolohov took the brunt of the fall.”

Hermione took a deep, steadying breath in.

“How is your friend?”

“He’s broken his arm and his leg, but he’ll live. Might not be able to join us for at least two months. I don’t know if he’ll be able to prepare for the exams on time; he might have to give them later.”

“They told me it was a fall? Where did you even fall from?”

Tom nodded, the carefully constructed lie he had made falling perfectly from his lips, “Some idiot junior had left their pens near the stairwell. I tripped and accidentally knocked into Dolohov. I managed to catch myself in time but Dolohov wasn’t so lucky. He fell all the way down.”

Hermione didn’t look convinced, “Did they catch it on camera?”

“They did. They even found the student who left the pens. Dippet says they’ll be properly reprimanded.”

“So it was just an accident?”

“Of course,” Tom soothed, politely not mentioning that he had set it all up himself and everything was predetermined. 

Though, Tom had to admit, Dolohov’s condition was a lot worse than he’d predicted. That wasn’t to say, though, that he was _disappointed_ by the development, he was simply pleasantly surprised.

“God, when I got the call I was so worried. Are Dolohov's parents here?"

"Mrs Dolohov is. Mr Dolohov hasn't made an appearance yet."

"Have you been in to see him?"

Tom shook his head. He had no interest in seeing him - the doctor's report was good enough for him.

"I was waiting for you. I'm really tired, could we go home?"

Hermione nodded her head, holding fast onto Tom's hands as if he'd disappear if she let go.

"Let's go. I was in the middle of a meeting with a client, so I won't be able to stay with you too long."

"Go back to you meeting then. I can get home myself."

"No, I'll take you, come on."

She tugged at his hand and he obliged.

"I'm not a child, Hermione, nor was I that badly hurt."

"I know."

Tom sighed and pretended he was bothered. He wasn't bothered in the _least_.


	6. In Which Tom Commits a (Major) Offence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll are getting a double post because I'm sick af and am busy with packing for my 8-hour trip back home and I know I won't be able to update for a while.
> 
> Also I apologise for the raw number of times the word gravestone is used, I was being lazy.

The sky was overcast and the wind was blowing with far more ferocity than it had any business to.

Draco swore under his breath and huddled further under his obnoxiously expensive, designer jacket. Bellatrix sneered at her cousin, all the while hiding the whole-body shudders she was suffering from. Lace corsets didn’t provide a lot of cover from the elements, after all.

“Why did you want us to meet in a _graveyard_?” Draco grumbled as he glared around at the gravestones.

Tom checked the time, “Because I need to find someone.”

“Feeling sentimental, Tom?” Bellatrix purred - or rather, attempted to purr. The chattering of her teeth got in the way.

“Spread out and look for ‘Merope Gaunt’. She should have died about seventeen years ago.”

Draco paused in the middle of his pity party, “Who the fuck is that?”

“None of your concern. Find out where her grave is and text me when you find it.”

Draco didn’t look happy about it but he set off to the right. Bellatrix lingered for a moment, perhaps to see if Tom would divulge anything. When he didn’t, she ran her hands up and down her bare arms and set off to the left. Tom went straight ahead, checking the gravestones on either side of him for Merope.

He readjusted the straps of his backpack, eager to find the gravestone but becoming more and more frustrated as - with each passing moment and each passing marker - he found nothing. 

Even in death, she had the gall to elude him.

Tom’s phone buzzed and he quickly checked it to see if Draco or Bellatrix had more luck. It was neither of them. It was Hermione.

**Hermione: Where are you? I woke up and you didn’t even leave a note anywhere, are you okay?**

Tom sighed and replied back that he was at the library before continuing on his search. Hermione texted a few more times about trivial things like lunch and a possible grocery run later in the day. Tom replied to each and every one of them, making sure to structure the texts so they sounded as neutral as possible. It wouldn't do to accidentally reveal how foul his mood was becoming. 

He reached the end and found nothing. His phone was in his hand and he was tempted to smash it against one of the graves.

He got another text.

He checked it, wondering what Hermione wanted _now_.

It was Draco.

He found it.

Tom bounded through the graveyard, his backpack smacking against him as he vaulted over graves but he didn’t care. Draco was standing five graves in, rubbing at his hands and looking miserable. Tom ignored him and made a beeline for the grave he pointed at.

Tom knelt before it and reached a hand out to touch the simple stone marker. Nature had made an adamant effort to reclaim the stone as its own, but the words were still visible.

He ran his fingers over each and every letter.

_Here lies Merope Guant  
Mother, daughter and sister._

Draco shuffled from one foot to the other.

“Was she someone you knew?”

“She was my mother.”

“Fuck,” Draco murmured, “_Shit_ \- Tom, I-I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Tom replied, voice soft.

If she hadn't abandoned him, Tom would never have suffered at Wool's, at the hands of Mrs Cole. If she hadn't abandoned him, he never would have found Hermione. He owed her, even if he was loathed to admit it. And he would finally get to repay his debt.

He slipped his bag off of his shoulders and carefully selected his tool.

“Tom, mate, what’re you doing with that hammer?”

“Paying her back.”

And he slammed the hammer against it. Draco swore loudly, leaping back and away from the danger zone. Tom knew he wouldn’t be able to ruin the gravestone too much - but just so long as he could strike her name out, any little bit helped.

It was why he’d bought the biggest hammer available.

When he was done, there were deep cracks in the marker and her name had been smashed away. Tom took a deep, steadying breath, brushing the sweat that had gathered with the back of his hand. Draco was gaping beside him - he hadn't moved a muscle throughout. Tom pushed the hammer onto a reluctant Draco and grabbed his bag, brushing the dirt off the bottom.

“We’re done here.” He told him, making a move towards the exit. 

“What was that all about?” Draco croaked, still holding the hammer awkwardly in his hands.

“I told you," He said over his shoulder, "pay back.”

Tom took his phone out and asked Hermione if she was in the mood for takeout.

She replied quickly.

She was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Js ya'll know, I have zero clue how strong headstones are or if they'd be able to withstand blows for a hammer - let's pretend they can.


	7. In Which Fairly Little Happens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second instalment.
> 
> We're starting to get plot in a plotless fic - my oh my.
> 
> Oh right, also, 69 kudos
> 
> n i c e

The door slammed shut and Tom looked up from his book to see Hermione enter. Her hair had come loose from its braid, her blouse was sufficiently rumpled and her expression promised murder. Tom turned back to his book and waited until Hermione had tossed her heels off, flung her bag away and thrown herself onto the sofa beside him.

“Had a nice day at work?” He asked, flipping to the next page. He’d read it several times already, and while he was of the opinion the whole bloody thing was a poor attempt at satire, he wouldn’t deny that ‘The Prince’ was an interesting read.

“Oh, it was _wonderful_.” Hermione grumbled back, throwing an arm over her eyes and sighing, “Cormac McLaggin came by my office. _Again_.”

Tom stopped mid-page-flip.

“What did he want?”

“To harass me into a date again. He even had the gall to grab and kiss me. Uncultured primate.” That last bit she muttered to herself.

Tom snapped his head her way, looking her up and down. She was still talking, venting on about how her day had been horrible and how McLaggen had made it worse, but Tom wasn’t listening. He took in her rumpled clothes, the creases near the collar. The hair that had come loose was pulled unevenly - as if it had been grabbed. The temperature of his blood rose to a gentle simmer.

“Did you charge him with sexual harassment?” Tom asked slowly, putting the book away and turning to face her properly.

“What? No. He’s a git, but he’s a smart git.”

“What do you mean? Can you not prove it?”

She sighed again, “No. Not a camera in sight. And since we were in my office, there weren't any witnesses either. It's my word against his.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Send a written complaint. I doubt anyone will do anything about it, McLaggen, damn him, is the golden boy of our department.”

Tom’s mind whirled with possible forms of retribution. McLaggen would to pay, Tom would make _sure_ of it.

“Has he done this before?”

“What? Kissed me? No. But I did hit him. Square on the jaw. If he tries to charge me with battery, I'll counter with harassment, but I doubt he'll take it that far.”

“I hope he bruises.”

Hermione cracked a small smile, removing her arm and turning to look at him.

“So how was your day?”

“A lot less exciting than yours. Bellatrix kept nagging at me to visit Dolohov with her, so I’m considering doing that tomorrow.”

“Oh right, how is he doing?”

“I have no clue. He’s probably alright.”

“God, you’re such an ass.”

She got to her feet and moved towards the fridge. While she rummaged around in it, Tom checked his messages. Bellatrix and Draco were going at one another again.

“Do you want to order out tonight? I’m too tired to cook.”

“Yes,” _Please_, he didn’t add. He wasn’t in the mood to force down Hermione’s horrible attempts at food.

“I’m feeling doner. Or something with fish.”

“There’s that new doner place down the way,” He said as he typed away at his phone, calling for silence in the group chat.

“Will you go and get it for us?”

Tom looked up from his phone.

“No.”

"Pretty please?"

"That's cute. Still no."

“Fine. Let me change my clothes and then _we_ can go down and grab some. We have to get some more milk. Eggs too.”

“Make a list, we can stop by Tesco.”

She hummed and got her phone, typing away a list.

“Oh right, Mum called today. She was asking about you.”

“And?”

“Did you call her or Dad this week?”

“No. Why?”

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest and turned to face him.

“Because she misses you? Honestly, Tom, you can be so heartless sometimes.”

Tom frowned.

“Jesus, I’ll call her. Go get changed already, I’m starving.”

“You may be master slither-outer, Tom Riddle, but I’ve known you for long enough to-”

“You don’t need to take your frustration out on me, Hermione. _I’m_ not the one who assaulted you. Now, do I have to beg to make you move?”

“Ass,” she grumbled under her breath.

Tom was tempted to call her out for her imaginative insults, but he refrained knowing they’d just get roped up into another argument. Hermione went into her room, shutting and locking her door while Tom turned back to the conversation. Abraxas was online as well as Barty. Bellatrix and Draco had thankfully quietened with their yapping and Barty and Abraxas were typing.

They had information about the _subject_ Tom had told them to look into. He told them he’d meet them within two hours and sent them the location of the Tesco.

Hermione emerged from her room in a simple pair of jeans and a shirt.

“Ready to go?” She asked, grabbing her phone and bag.

“Yes. I’d suggest a jacket, it might rain. I’ll be meeting with some friends as well.”

“This late at night?”

“It’s only for a little while.”

“You’re not going to be smoking, are you?”

Tom pocketed his phone and grabbed his jacket off the hook.

“I’m almost insulted that you think I’d be that transparent. Of course not.”

“Smoke lingers on your clothes, you know.”

“I’ll let you sniff at me to your heart’s content when I get back.”

He dodged the smack she aimed at him and quickly made for the door, grinning as Hermione shouted after him.


	8. In Which Dumbledore Is Not Fooled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have come back with another bit.  
I've also been working on a proper fic with an actual plot so let's see when I roll that out.  
For now, enjoy this. I obviously know absolutely nothing about therapy or the human mind - and it shows.

"Hello, Tom."

"Doctor," Tom replied, easing into the chair and depositing his backpack by his feet. 

Dumbledore was by his bookshelf - stuffed full of an assortment of books and tacky, modernist art pieces - and had his back to him. 

Tom contemplated grabbing the quartz rock placed on the coffee table in front of him and tossing it at Dumbledore's head. 

He risked a glance to the side and spotted the camera hidden in the corner. 

He suppressed the urge and settled in more comfortably.

"How have things been since we last talked?"

"Oh, nothing too big has happened. I finally visited my mother's grave."

Dumbledore paused and turned around. The twinkles in his bright, blue eyes were damn near blinding.

"Is that so?" He glided towards his own chair and settled in, notepad in hand and pen poised to pick at Tom's brain. 

"Yup," he murmured, unable to look at Dumbledore's garish three piece suit. He wasn't even aware orange and teal suits with little star sequins were an option. 

"And how are you feeling now?" 

"Oh, just _dandy_. I finally got to say the things I never got to say." _And do the things I won't ever be able to_.

"Are you feeling better? Mentally?"

He nodded enthusiastically, "I am. It's like a thousand pound weight has been lifted off me."

"That's good. That's very good, Tom. I'm very happy for you. What else happened, if anything?"

But even as he said that, Tom saw him scribbling away in his notebook. Perhaps he had better hold back on the theatrics - Dumbledore wasn't a complete idiot, after all.

He took a slow breath in then, hunching forward and drawing himself in tighter. Dumbledore noticed but said nothing. Tom lowered his head and looked anywhere but at the white-haired bane of his existence. 

"A... a friend of mine got hurt as well."

"Oh?"

"Yes." He swallowed, hard, "Anton Dolohov. He's a very old friend of mine - since I was adopted."

"Is he alright?"

Tom shrugged, trying to play it off cool, "He fell down some steps. We both did, but he got far more hurt than me."

"Is that so? How did it happen?"

Tom picked at a stray thread on the sofa. He took a moment, as if he was having an emotional response. Dumbledore stopped writing.

"Tom?" He prompted softly.

"It's my fault, really." He muttered, "If I had just held onto the railing harder or watched my step he wouldn't be in the hospital right now."

He began to write again - faster this time, "Why do you think it's your fault?"

"I tripped over some pens and knocked into him. We were running down the stairwell and I wasn't watching where I was going and some _idiot_ sixth year had dropped their pens - I just-" He sighed savagely.

"Take your time, Tom. It's okay. Is Mr Dolohov alright?"

He nodded after a moment, "He's broken his leg and fractured his arm, but he'll recover. But none of this would have happened if I just looked."

Dumbledore cocked his head to the side. Tom grimaced as if he was in pain. Which he was - he had to beat down his pride, afterall.

"It was an accident, Tom. Accidents happen. Sometimes the consequences are manageable, sometimes they aren't. It will be difficult, but I don't want you to blame yourself." He scribbled something in and then looked back up at him, "Have you been to visit him since his injury?"

"Once," he nodded, "I went with a classmate of ours."

"I want you to see him more often as well. It will help you, rid you of this guilt you feel."

"It's going to be hard."

"It will be, but it's important. Visiting your mother was hard, but you feel better after, don't you?"

Tom was silent, as if seriously considering his suggestion. And then he sighed and nodded his head.

"I'll think about it," he acceded, and the liquid exhaustion he injected into the words was only half-faked.

"I wouldn't suggest it if I didn't think it would be good for you."

After that, Dumbledore steered the conversation to more sedate discussions. Perhaps he thought he'd pressed hard enough for the day, that if he continued trying to get Tom to open up anymore than he already had, he would lash back. Tom was more than happy to play the role of the sick, confused boy. 

Especially if it got Dumbledore off his back. Because if he played his cards right and had studied the stereotypes properly, he'd be well on his way out of therapy.

After all, a psychopath didn't _care_ for friends.

A psychopath didn't have _friends_.

And as far as Dumbledore should have been concerned, Tom was _not_ a psychopath.


	9. In Which Tom Begins to Plot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Murder is illegal, kids, and so is blackmail and bribery (all three of which appear in this chapter and not in ways you or I would think). I wish I could say bad writing is too, because then I could live out my fantasies as a criminal mastermind. Sadly for everyone, it is not.
> 
> Also, take a shot every time Abraxas's name comes up. Though I suppose it should be a shot of water, to keep you all hydrated and also to avoid a nasty case of alcohol poisoning. Then again, you could suffer from a slight case of hyponatremia, which is just a fancy word for water poisoning. Only it's not actually water poisoning, but is, in essence, similar to alcohol poisoning only with water. Except not really. Just go google it yourself.
> 
> Also, also, Tom's long-ass monologue is because I was just so proud of myself for coming up with the idea, but I want all of you to pretend _really_ hard that it's actually just because Tom likes to hear himself talk. Afterall, gotta keep the villain's monologuing trope alive, even if our villain is in fact, our protagonist.
> 
> Anyway, if you managed to read all of that, I feel sorry that you've got so much time to kill, applaud you for the amount of time you have to kill and urge you to spend all this time you have to kill in more constructive ways than reading through my mindless rambling. 
> 
> Anyway, anyway, enjoy!

“Abraxas,” Tom began, taking a measured drag from his cigarette and blowing it out heaven-wards, “I want to commit murder.”

Abraxas coughed around his own cigarette and Tom waited patiently for him to recover.

“I’m sorry, _what_?”

“Murder. I want to kill someone. How do I get away with it?”

“Is this a joke?”

“What do you think?”

Tom turned to face him, leveling a steady stare his way. The blonde shifted from one foot to the other, delightfully perturbed.

Abraxas looked very much like his younger cousin. That same pale skin, pale hair and pale blue eyes.

How Tom _loathed_ them. The Blacks and the Malfoys and the Lestranges. Everyone in Hogwarts with their old-money and their powerful names. He still recalled how they used to bully him in the very start for having no name and no money. They respected him now, but Tom didn’t think he ever wanted to forgive them. 

Forgiveness was dull, afterall. Once they had expended their usefulness, Tom would have his fun. For now he had to plan and act carefully - pulling strings and twisting arms to get them to do his bidding.

“I hardly need to tell you that murder is illegal, Tom.”

“I’m well aware, hence my urge to avoid any charges. And as it would happen, you’re a lawyer with extensive understanding of the law. So, how would I get away with murder?”

Abraxas eyed him wearily, “Depends who you want to kill.”

“My uncle.”

“The one you had me and Crouch look into? What was his name? Morphine?”

Tom took another lazy drag, “Morfin, actually. And yes, the very same.”

“Well, I-I mean, there are loads of ways but -” Abraxas paused as if searching for the right words, “I really don’t think the man deserves to be _murdered_, Tom. It’s kind of permanent, killing people.”

He rolled his eyes, “If it makes you feel any better, I haven’t set my heart on it. But if one thing leads to another, I think it’d be wise if I had some sort of precautions in place.”

“And those precautions would be?"

Tom tapped off the burnt bits of his cigarette and took another, healthy inhale, "That's what you're here for. Of course I'll make sure there are no fingerprints. And I'll make sure to do it in some back alley without cameras. But I want some suggestions to ensure I don't even end up in court. It looks very bad to have 'considered a murder suspect' on my record, as I’m sure you would understand. Not everyone has rich fathers who can vanish charges, do we?"

The blond winced and took a quick drag, shaking his head. They were quiet for a moment as Abraxas thought. No doubt weighing the pros and cons. Tom couldn’t _wait_ for him to ask what he would get out of this deal, after all, a Malfoy didn’t do anything for free. And he had been sitting on this bit of information for a while now, waiting patiently for the perfect time to bring it to light.

"You've clearly put some thought into this." Abraxas remarked weakly, "Dunno what you even need my help for."

"I don't like repeating myself, Abraxas. Do think about it - I want a responsible answer after all. And I hardly need to say that none of this should be mentioned to Hermione. Or the police."

Abraxas hissed as the lit bit of his fag burnt at his fingers. He dropped the cigarette and nursed his fingers. Tom watched him carefully.

“It would be a terrible shame if Astoria’s father found out about your late night liaison with Mistress Payne. Or was it Mistress Pleasure? I always get them mixed up. Well, it shouldn't be too hard, actually, what with one of them sporting a baby-bump. I suppose congratulations are in order. Though, I have to admit, I didn't know prostitutes kept their children. How much did you have to pay her? And while bastards are common in your family, I'm not sure how it'll fly with Astoria. How _is_ she doing, by the way?”

Abraxas choked on air and stared wide-eyed at Tom, who took a final lungful of smoke before dropping his cigarette and crushing it under heel.

“It would be awful if Daddy Malfoy found out your marriage prospect from childhood would refuse you over these shocking turn of events - especially for your inheritance. I heard it was tied to your marriage with Astoria. Good lord, imagine having to beg _Draco_ for spending money.”

He clenched his hands into fists, so tightly his knuckles turned white. Tom wondered if he was going to hit him. He wanted him to, he wanted Malfoy to hit him just so he could have a reasonable excuse to break that stupid, aristocratic nose of his. Maybe stain that four thousand pound suit and wreck his expensive haircut. Abraxas wouldn't though. He was a Malfoy afterall. And while Malfoy's were cowards, they were also intelligent. Abraxas would know there was nothing he could do to Tom that wouldn't end up wrecking his own life in the process.

Because throwing a punch at Tom would only give him momentary satisfaction - even if he slapped a law-suit against Tom for breaking every bone in his body, all Tom would have to do was place once phone call and Abraxas would get the shorter end of the stick.

"You're a fucking _psycho_, Riddle. A fucking _bastard_."

Tom raised his brows, "You're right on all accounts. But that's not what I wanted to hear, Malfoy."

Abraxas’s jaw muscles twitched and his shoulders grew tense and he finally gave a curt, sharp nod.

"Of course.” He grit out, “We never even had this conversation."

“No, we didn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lemme know if ya'll wanna see someone get murdered. Not actual murder, cause murder is bad.
> 
> And while I am out to ruin both of our lives, I'm not out to land myself in jail.


	10. In Which Spoons Dictate Ones Socio-Economic Status (and Tom (Almost) Makes a Move)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is supposed to be self-indulgent trash, but sometimes I feel like even trash should have _ some _ quality. This, sadly, does not.
> 
> Also sorry for not updating in a while, uni just started so I'm busy with that, but here we go! Another instalment I literally wrote right now; I haven't proof-read it or checked to see if it was even worth posting, only the best for you guys, after all :D. Enjoy!

**Hermione: We’re going out for dinner.**

**Hermione: Dress nicely. Smart-casual.**

Tom began to type out a response when his phone buzzed.

**Hermione: Don’t ask any questions.**

Tom tossed his phone aside and stared up at his bedroom ceiling. Nagini had coiled herself next to him, her head settled on his stomach as she dozed. Crookshanks was sitting on top of his desk, staring out through his bedroom window at the world below. 

It was six o’clock in the evening, what on _earth_ was Hermione planning?

Still, he would have to do as she commanded, otherwise it was his head (and hearing) on the line.

Gently moving Nagini’s head off of him and onto his pillow, Tom made for his chest of drawers. As he riffled through the neat piles of clothes for his button down and slacks, he was assaulted by memories he had tried very hard to suppress.

Ones that involved a scared little boy and a dark, dank orphanage where he had two clothes to his name and both had holes big enough to fit his hands through.

He slammed the drawer shut so hard Crookshanks jumped with a yowl and Nagini let out a chilling hiss.

“Shut up, both of you,” Tom said, tugging his t-shirt off and changing into his new clothes.

Crookshanks let out another ugly meow and Tom sent the disfigured cat a glare.

“Shut up before I feed you to Nagini.”

The python had the good grace to hiss encouragingly back.

Crookshanks flicked his tail, yellow eyes narrowed before standing up, hopping off of his desk and leaving - sashaying his hips in the most aggressive fashion Tom had ever seen.

Shaking his head, he continued to change. His phone buzzed a few more times during that period and he checked it occasionally. It was mostly Bellatrix and Draco going at each other again about something trivial. Dolohov was finally able to join them in the group chat, but his responses took a while to arrive, considering he could only type with one hand. Theodore was silent, as usual, no doubt creeping on the fringes and reading through their pointless diatribe.

But then, as he was carefully arranging his hair so it looked both neat but artfully tousled, his phone began to ring. It was Hermione. He put her on loud speaker and continued. 

“Are you ready?” She said.

“What? Not even a hello? What’s this dinner about, anyway?”

“I’ve got to meet with a very important superior of mine. He said he wanted to meet at a restaurant of all places and that I was supposed to bring a date.”

“Was McLaggen unavailable?” Tom snarked, secretly quite pleased he had been her first pick.

“Oh, shut up. I asked Harry, but he had a date with Ginny and Ron still hasn’t apologised so I wasn’t about to ask _him_ for any favours.”

Tom’s mood soured. Of _course_ she’d ask her stupid friends.

“Isn't it a bit unorthadox that he's having a _very important meeting_ at a fucking restaurant?”

“They often have these sorts of things,” Hermione sighed, “Especially if they’re considering someone for a promotion. So I need you on your _best_ behaviour. I’m serious, alright, Tom?”

“Why Hermione,” Tom murmured as he ran a final hand through his hair, happy with how it fell elegantly just over his brow, “I’m always on my best behaviour.”

“Just hurry up, I’m almost home.”

“Ready and waiting,” Tom said as he hung up the call and pocketed his phone, giving Nagini a final pat before leaving.

**~ * ~**

Tom’s face hurt from how long he had kept a polite smile on. Really, how did some people manage to prattle on. Hermione’s superior, a J. E. Prewett, was a senior partner at the firm Hermione worked at, with a side business at an oil company that had recently struck big.

The man was an absolute ponce, there was no polite word for it. And he was new money too. _Reeked_ of it. Tom would know; he was surrounded by people who had been born with diamond-encrusted platinum spoons in their mouths. This man may have had one of those cheap, take-out plastic ones in his.

Tom hadn’t been given any spoons.

Hermione had been struggling the entire time to convince her sort-of boss that his attention should be focused on the business at hand, and not at her chest. Her boss's date (_Mrs._ Prewett, though it was clear she held as much affection for her husband as the average person would a mealworm) didn't seem bothered in the least, though Tom couldn't say he felt the same.

His palms stung from how tightly he clenched his fists. 

The first time Mr Prewett had made a crass comment, Hermione’s hand had darted underneath the table and held onto Tom’s arm, fingers digging sharply into his skin. He hadn’t been sure why until he realised he had half-risen out of his chair. He passed it off smoothly as readjusting himself in his seat and after that he had kept a close eye on how he reacted.

Mr Prewett made another loud, inappropriate joke. Hermione had stopped pretending to laugh it off awkwardly, Tom’s smile had not touched his eyes since the dinner began and Mrs Prewett was enjoying her fourth glass of wine as was well and truly drunk. Dessert was served. 

The whole thing was a mess. 

The food was overpriced and tasted like crap. Hermione kept moving her food around, concentrating more on her work than the disaster of an evening. Tom kept his mouth shut because he didn’t trust himself enough not to say something scalding.

Drinks.

The arsehole wanted post-dinner drinks. Hermione politely declined, stating that she had to get Tom home. Her boss made it clear what he thought of that idea. He _insisted_. Not like Tom would insist - Tom didn’t need to put any anger in his words or iron in his movements. This sleazy, oil-rich, new-money chav had to force people to listen.

If it was one thing Tom had learnt from those harrowing two hours - it was that he would _never_ make such a spectacle of himself as her boss was.

Hermione didn’t listen, all but grabbed Tom’s arm and hauled both of them out with only the shortest, briefest pleasantries.

She power-walked towards the nearest bus station, heels clacking angrily against the pavement. Tom wondered how she was able to move so fast.

And mere feet away from the bus stop, her heel caught in a rut and she stumbled forward.

Tom caught her, looping his arms around her and helping her up, keeping her steady.

“Great,” she hissed to herself, her fingers clutching tight at Tom’s shirt, “_Fuck_, that was an utter shit show.”

“Are you alright?” Tom murmured, rearranging her so she was leaning against him.

“No, I’m not alright. _God_, I can’t wait to get back home and take a shower.”

“Your ankle, is your ankle okay?”

She glared at him and then sighed, “No, it hurts.”

“I’m calling Malfoy.”

“What?”

“I’ll tell him to pick us up.”

Tom already had his phone in hand Draco’s number dialling when Hermione’s mind processed what was happening and she tried to swipe the phone from him, only to wobble unsteadily.

“Keep still,” he hissed. The call picked up. Draco was at a party, Tom could hear the thumping of bass music.

“What’s wrong, Riddle?” Draco yelled.

“Send your car to pick us up.”

“Alright, text me the address!” he replied without missing a beat.

Tom ended the call and sent their location. Draco promised the car was on its way. Hermione was suspiciously quiet and Tom looked down at her. She was watching him, unease clear on her face.

“It’s almost scary how you do that.”

“Do what?”

“How you have them all throwing themselves to impress you. It doesn’t feel like a friendship at all.”

“I told you,” Tom replied, pressing Hermione closer against himself under the pretense of keeping her stable, she allowed it, “I don’t have friends and I don’t care about people.”

She scoffed, “Is that right?”

“I do have one exception,” Tom admitted after a moment.

“Oh?”

He looked down at her. At her eyes - honey yellow in the light of day and dark, chocolate brown in the night. At the freckles that dotted her face, dark against her light skin. The lights from the nearby restaurants washed her in a golden glow, the anger from the failed dinner had her cheeks flushed a dark red. Hermione wasn’t conventionally pretty: her nose was too stubby, her hair too frizzy and her chin too short. But Tom didn’t care about pretty. He didn’t need pretty.

“You.”

A dark, sleek car rolled to a stop in the bus lane. A chauffeur with the Malfoy crest on his uniform exited the car and opened the back door for them. Tom escorted Hermione into it. They spent the drive home in silence.

As they waited for the elevator to deposit them onto their floor, Hermione finally spoke up.

“Want to order something for dinner?”

“Why? You didn’t like your twenty-four carat lobster?”

She sent him a look but Tom had his eyes closed, a smile threatening to emerge.

“I’m in the mood for pizza.”

He gave in, his lips pulling at the edges, “Yeah, why not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amount they order out tho...  
It's all cause Hermione can't cook and Tommy boy doesn't want to.  
Also, yeah! Welcome to my (frankly awful) attempts at romance! It'll (hopefully) improve later on. This entire chapter was a disaster, and I honestly just forced it out cause I needed to put a bit of a buffer before we press forward into (hopefully) more engaging territory like the eventual (murder) romance!
> 
> Soooooo hit that like button if you haven't already, smash that subscriber button and comment about what you liked most! And I'll see you guys next week! (you probably might not, I actually have no idea) (also don't really do any of those things) (I'm jk it's a free world, do whatever you want)


	11. A Murder Most Foul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Tom finally commits murder.  
Warnings (I guess): murder, karambit knives (well, more like one karambit knife), blood (sort of), not very descriptive gore but a little bit, a fair amount of swearing.
> 
> I'll be honest: I've never had a character killed violently before. I also worry for the FBI agent who has to read through my search history because boy, oh boy will some eyebrows be raised. 
> 
> Anyways, enjoy!

When Tom was five years old, he had been unceremoniously dumped at Wool’s Orphanage - a loving, caring home for children who had (one way or another) been left by their parents. At least, that was what Tom believed Mrs Cole would tell unsuspecting people to encourage them to loft their unwanted kids onto her.

Because Wool’s was _not_ a loving and caring home. In fact, Tom wasn’t sure it could even _constitute_ as a home, much less an orphanage that was supposed to sustain multiple children.

Nevertheless, at five years old, the dilapidated shell of a building was all Tom knew, and the ten or so other children shoved into tiny rooms were his sole companions. It really was a _wonder_ how Mrs Cole was allowed to run the facility. Tom was sure she must have had a person working on the inside - she always seemed to know when they were having a ‘random’ inspection and always made sure to feed and clothe them well before it happened. Tom was fed better during the days leading up to an inspection than he was at any other point throughout the year.

Well, whoever Mrs Cole had bought off, they must have taken a holiday because one fine, overcast day they had an unscheduled, random inspection and Mrs Cole _hadn’t_ been made aware. The children, all of them, including Tom, were taken out of Wool’s that very day and Mrs Cole was charged with multiple felonies. She was still paying off her dues, if Tom’s sources were correct.

At nine years old, Tom was tossed like a hacky-sack from one foster family to the other because no one could keep him for too long and there weren’t nearly enough people willing to adopt children. All his fosters were people who already had several children of their own and were barely meeting ends meat; but they had big hearts and wanted to torture a tortured child more by subjecting them to their own insufferable offspring. Tom would often have to share a room with several of their bratty children. Though, all things considered, it was still a decided improvement from Wool’s. At least he was fed regularly.

That is until he met the Grangers. At nine years old, Tom was introduced to a whole new lifestyle. 

Tom was introduced to the luxuries money could buy.

The Grangers lived in the Heath, among a row of gated houses that looked more like mansions - that were mansions. The garage that housed their multiple, sleek cars was twice the size of the room Tom had to share with the other castoffs.

Money - he realised the day he was deposited in front of the Granger’s home - Tom wanted money and all the things money brought with it.

By the time Tom reached the tender age of ten, he had been enrolled at Hogwarts - a secondary and tertiary school for the very smart and the very rich. Hermione was several grades ahead of him there and Tom often passed by her in the halls. She always had the same three friends (how those three managed to get into Hogwarts had always been a mystery to Tom - because the Weasleys _weren’t_ rich and Potter _wasn’t_ smart). 

At the age of ten, Tom also learnt that having a name that mattered _mattered_. And the more ridiculous and foreign it sounded, the better. The person who taught him this harsh life-lesson was one Draco Malfoy. Shortly after a quick beatdown behind the boating shed, Draco Malfoy learnt _his_ lesson and settled himself in as one of Tom’s underlings. 

A name - Tom wanted a name that was instantaneously recognisable. Tom Riddle was too commonplace a name - too forgettable. If he wanted to get anywhere in life, he needed a name that _stuck_.

At the age of fourteen Tom was invited to the Malfoy’s city home, their city home in _Belgravia_. Tom had heard about it sometimes. It was the home of the uber rich, some of them had gotten their wealth through ill-gotten means, some of them did things others would have balked at. And as he walked through their mansion, because it was a mansion - even if everyone else described it as simply a ‘townhouse’, Tom learned another important lesson: money and fame only got you so far.

What he really, _really_ wanted was power. 

All three though, were preferable. All three, Tom _would_ get, one way or another.

And when he found out who his mother had been - what kind of _name_ she carried - Tom knew he had always been destined for greatness. The hardships he’d endured in his early life were just to strengthen him; to make him understand what was important. Because his mother was Meorpe Gaunt - a member of the once famous Gaunt family - direct descendants of one of the old kings of England. Tom was _royalty_ (on his mother’s side, at least).

That it had to take him a while to unearth this discovery was of no importance anymore. He knew now, and he knew how to use it to his advantage.

_A Gaunt!_

This was the best gift he could ever have been given.

Because a name as ancient and noble as Gaunt came with perks. Titles, deeds, heirlooms, _estates_!

But as Malfoy’s car rolled to a stop outside a thick tangle of trees, any elation Tom felt slowly began to simmer down.

“Why have we stopped?” He demanded, turning to Abraxas.

“We’re here.”

Tom narrowed his eyes, “If this is supposed to be a joke, Malfoy, I don’t find it funny.”

Abraxas sighed, running a hand down his face, “This isn’t a joke, Riddle. This is where the GPS says the house is. Just past the trees, see?”

Abraxas pointed at the dashboard. There, on the screen were two dots. One blue and car shaped and one red and arrowed shaped. They almost overlapped. This really was the place.

“Are you sure this is the address? You didn’t put it in incorrectly?”

“You made me double check when we left, Tom. This really is the place.”

Tom looked back out through the window, at the mass of forest in front of him.

“_Fucksake_,” he muttered, unbuckling the seatbelt and opening the car’s gullwing doors. Abraxas remained seated.

“I’m going to stay here, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Do as you wish, just make sure you get the letter sorted,” Tom replied and left. Abraxas could close the damn door himself.

As he navigated the thick cluster of trees, his heart sank more and more. This had to be some horrid joke. It just had to. But, as the trees finally thinned and an outline of a building came into view, Tom understood that it really, truly wasn't.

Calling it a _house_ would be unfair to houses. It was a shack, and even then it was unfair to compare it to shacks. It was a dilapidated mess of a place with roof tiles missing, a wall that looked like it wanted to cave in and a general air of despair. The _noble house of Gaunt_ was nothing more than a shanty, little, rotten husk of a once great ancestral home. 

Tom approached the door. A dead snake was nailed to it, rotten with bones exposed. Disgusted, he put his gloves on and pushed the door open. It swung inwards with a fair amount of creaking. No locks. He somehow wasn’t surprised; the door was barely clinging on to its rusted hinges.

Tom took a measured step inside. The floorboards creaked under his weight. Tom brought a hand up and covered his mouth and nose. The house _reeked_.

“Who's there?” a voice slurred from inside the depths of the house.

“Are you Morfin Gaunt?” Tom called out, taking another careful step inside, his other hand drifting inside his pocket for the karambit he had brought along. 

It had taken some arm twisting, but Dolohov had finally smuggled some of his father’s weapons. Tom had taken an instant liking to the karambit. The fact that it was tied to one of Mr Dolohov’s lackies just helped make the deal sweeter.

“Who wants to know?”

Tom entered the bowels of the home, what was once a grand dining hall was now barely even a room. Droppings - animal and human - littered the place. Mould and fungus grew everywhere and the smell of decay and despair lingered most pungently there. And sitting on a half-broken chair, staring into a fire made of trash, was single handedly the most repulsive man Tom have ever laid eyes upon (and he had therapy sessions with Dumbledore every Thursday evening).

“Did you know Merope Gaunt?” Tom asked, staying by the dining hall entrance, unable (for the moment) to step inside. What had happened to this house? It should have been gleaming and sparkling, eager for its rightful heir to return home. This? This place wasn’t even fit to _burn_.

“Why? She whorin’ herself from the grave?”

“I don’t know about that, but what I do know is that I am her son, and a member of the Gaunt family. And you, I suppose, are my uncle.”

The man turned around. He was hideous. Years of inbreeding had resulted in a mess of a human face. He stooped in his chair, his arms gangly and mismatched with the rest of his body. A thought came to Tom’s mind: Frankenstien’s monster. Though that creature had a fair bit more intelligence than this sorry excuse for a human being every hoped to achieve.

“The fuck you are. Hang on, you look like that bastard, the one Merope went an’ fucked. What was his name? Girddle?”

“Riddle?” Tom suggested.

“Thas’ it! Riddle! Tom fuckin’ Riddle.”

Tom’s blood froze.

“What?” He demanded, taking a step inside and regretting it instantly when the smell assaulted his nose, “Say it again.”

“Who’re you?”

“Say his name again!”

“Who the fuck d’you think you are comin’ inta my home an’ ordering me about, eh? Get out!”

Morfin began to rise from his chair but Tom was quicker. In the time it took him to struggle to stand, Tom had already crossed the distance between them and pressed the blade of his curved knife against Morfin’s throat. The man stank like a sewer, but Tom had his mind focused on other things.

“Say his name again,” he hissed.

Morfin shook, raising his hands up in surrender, “Look I-I don’t want no trouble. I don’t have no money, yeah? I live in a fuckin’ hovel!”

“Say his name. I won’t repeat myself again.” He pressed the knife close enough that a thin line cut into Morfin’s neck. The man whimpered and nodded his head, accidentally cutting himself deeper.

“Riddle! Tom Riddle!”

“What do you know about him?”

“He lives up in that big, fancy house at the end of the village! Merope would watch him all the time when he would go horse riding. Fell in love with the bastard, she did. Drugged him an’ fucked him too. And then she ran away and ended up dead. Riddle still lives there, I think. That’s all I know, I swear!”

“Thank you,” Tom replied, taking a step back and lowering his knife.

“You’re gonna let me go?” Morfin was still standing as still as stone, worried, perhaps, that Tom would threaten him again. 

“I have no further use for you, so yes,” Morfin began to relax, “But before that -”

Tom grabbed Morfin’s shoulder and spun the man around. Stunned, Morfin could only gape as Tom drove his knife into his stomach and tugged the serrated blade free. Morfin staggered back but Tom wasn’t done.

“Did you know I was alive?” He asked conversationally as he advanced on Morfin. The man clutched at his wrecked abdomen and gasped. Tom advanced upon him. “Did you know you had a nephew, one who would amount to so much more than you ever could? Is that why you let this house degrade intofilth?” He got in close and stabbed into Morphin’s shoulder. The force of the blow forced the man to fall to the ground. He left out a wet scream. He was bleeding profusely. Tom was sure that if he poked at his abdomen, things that weren’t meant to come out would. If Morfin didn’t act how he wanted him to, maybe he would.

Tom fell upon him, pressing his knife right against his neck once more.

“When I learnt that I was a Gaunt, that I had an uncle, I was so furious at you. I was going to kill you, not only because I wanted the house, but because you didn’t even _try_ to look for me. But when I saw what you did to this house? I don’t want this hovel. No. I’m _glad_ you left me to rot at the Orphanage, because it was heaven compared to this. So the reason you’re dying now is because the only thing my _bitch_ of a mother left me was a name and a house and you rendered them _both useless_.”

Morfin gargled out something but all that came out was a disgusting bubble of blood.

“I had planned a swift death, but I don’t think you deserve it.” And it was then that Tom spotted something on his hand. A black, signet ring, “Well, well, well. What do we have here? So, you let the house fall to ruin but at least you didn't pawn off our heirlooms. I've heard about this ring. The Gaunt Family ring. I think it's time it came to its rightful owner, don't you? Thank you _ever_ so much for keeping a hold of it." 

Tom used the knife and wrenched Morfin’s ring finger off. It took some doing and he had to struggle a bit because of the bone, but in the end he managed it. Morfin had tried screaming and floundering but the vicious injury on his stomach, combined with Tom's weight pinning him down, made it difficult for him to do much more than gargle out blood and weep.

He pushed off of the man, unbothered if he got blood on his clothes. He was going to burn them anyways.

“You can use the knife and end your waste of a life, if you want. I’m sure that little cut on your stomach burns a bit.” He threw the karambit to the far side of the room. 

“Oops,” he grinned when it landed with a light _clank_, “My hand slipped.”

He then got to work dislodging the ring from his bloody finger, tossing that too once the ring was safely wrapped in a handkerchief and inside his pocket. Morfin gargled again, perhaps he was begging, perhaps he was cursing his name - either way, Tom didn’t care. He could spend his last few breaths of air however he liked.

“Goodbye, Uncle,” he called cheerfully over his shoulder as he made his way out.

Once he was outside, Tom bundled the gloves up and threw them into the bushes. He had specially gotten biodegradable gloves for the job and by the time anyone thought to look for Morfin, Tom would be long-gone.

Abxraxas hadn’t moved an inch. He even had the letter glued together. Tom actually hadn’t expected him to tough it out, if he was honest.

The initial plan had been to stage this as a debt-collector with a bad temper. Now, Tom didn’t think they even needed to bother with it. 

“Well?” Abraxas asked, an uncomfortable edge to his voice, as Tom threw his blood soaked clothes into a disposable bag. He then tugged on a clean, black shirt and black pants.

“We can leave,” Tom replied once he was settled into the passenger seat.

“What about the letter?”

“Burn it if you want to. No one will come looking for him.”

Abraxas furrowed his brows, “Are you sure that’s a safe move?”

“I’m positive. We’re in the middle of nowhere. And something tells me Uncle Morfin wasn’t popular amongst his neighbours.”

Abraxas still didn’t look convinced but he started the car up again and began to twist it around back the way they came. Tom would make another trip to Little Hangleton, but that wouldn’t be for a little while. Where Morfin had been easy to take care of, Tom had a feeling Riddle Senior wouldn’t be nearly as willing to lay down and die. And Tom, well, Tom would be _disappointed_ if the man gave up so easily. No, he was going to _enjoy_ his meeting with his father.

“I trust your decision, Tom. Just make sure none of this leads back to me and it's all fine.”

“Have a little more faith in me, Abraxas. I’m not an amateur.”

Abraxas shuddered; he would have committed fewer sins if he worked directly with the devil. And for the first time in his life, he felt bad for Hermione. The woman had no idea what kind of a monster she shared her home and hearth with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My love for italics is trumped only by my hatred for how you have to format them on AO3. I now understand why so many authors on this avoid them. I only wish I wasn't so attached to them as I am.


	12. In Which Hermione Cooks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hated the last chapter and wanted to post something so I could pretend it never happened!  
This is a short one but enjoy.

“Do it.”

“No.”

“Come on.”

“No.”

“Tom.”

“Hermione.”

“Just try it! One bite.”

“I already told you, before you even began, that I wouldn’t.”

“Stop being such an ass and try it! I put a lot of effort into it!”

Tom glanced behind Hermione at the packets of sauces. He looked back at her, one eyebrow ticked upwards. Hermione studiously ignored his incredulous expression.

“Do it.”

“No.”

“Tom. Please?” She blinked up at him, her lips worked down in a frown. 

He glared down at her. Hermione didn’t move an inch.

“_Fine_,” he snarled, “If I get sick, you only have yourself to blame. And I want it on record that this was all _your_ fault.”

“Less talk, more tasting.”

Tom neared the pot. She had tried making bolognese. Emphasis on ‘tried’ because the bubbling mess certainly didn’t look like any bolognese Tom had ever seen, it wasn’t even the right _colour_. He didn’t feel apprehension on a normal basis. Tom didn’t feel fear. But as he looked at the contents of the pot (what on _earth_ were those red lumps?) of what was definitely _not_-bolognese, for possibly the first time in his life, Tom felt real fear.

He picked up a spoon and took as small an amount as he possibly could.

Hermione was right beside him, watching him and the pot with eager eyes.

Tom brought the spoon slowly towards himself.

His hands shook and his whole body was tense as the spoon neared dangerously close his lips.

A knock sounded on their door. Hermione jerked away and Tom quickly dropped the spoon back down. His life had flashed by him but he had survived.

“Who on earth could it be?” Hermione murmured to herself as she went to check the door.

It was Ronald Weasley. Tom couldn’t believe he owed his life to _Ronald Weasley_.

He had come bearing gifts - his mother’s cooking.

And the only reason he was allowed to step foot in their apartment was because he had finally swallowed his pride and apologised to Hermione. He saw Tom standing beside the pot of not-bolognese and he raised his brows in surprise.

“Oh, were you guys cooking?” Ron foolishly asked.

“No," Tom replied, "Hermione was.”

Tom stepped away from the pot before Hermione tried to force him to try it again. He had dodged a bullet, but he didn’t think he’d be so lucky to do it again.

“Mind if I try a bite?” He smiled a huge smile at Hermione, who nodded eagerly and launched into a long-winded explanation how she and Tom ate out more often than not and how that wasn’t healthy in the least.

Tom had meant to get rid of Hermione’s friends, _permanently_, but the fates must really have been smiling down at him, because Ronald Weasley was going to eliminate himself and Tom didn’t even have to raise a finger.

He settled back against the island, crossing his arms over his chest and watching as Ron approached the pot and picked up the spoon Tom had abandoned. The fool dipped the spoon into the pot and took a healthy helping. Hermione was still chattering away but Tom wasn’t paying attention to her. No, he was watching as Ron brought the spoon up to his mouth and ate the whole thing.

“Well, what do you think?”

“It tastes a little uh, weird?” Ron said slowly as he swallowed and took a good look at the pot, “My mouth’s burning a little. What is this?”

“That might be the chili.”

“Chilli?” Tom asked, “You put _chillies_ in bolognese?”

“We’d run out of tomatoes and tomato paste! I looked online and it said green salsa worked as well!”

“Shit, my mouth’s really starting to burn,” Ron exclaimed. He panted, his face turning redder than his hair, “_Shit_, Hermione, how spicy _was_ your salsa?”

“Tom’s friend gave it to us.”

Oh, oh this was _perfect_. 

“It’s a spicy Mexican salsa.” Tom replied gleefully, “I think they put Ghost Peppers in it.”

Ron’s face was bright red at this point and his eyes watered. Hermione watched in panic as Ron rushed to their sink and began to chug water.

“Tom, grab the milk!”

Tom sauntered towards their fridge, knowing full well that they’d run out of milk that morning. Still, he took his sweet time before he popped his head back up and shook his head.

“We’re out.”

Hermione darted her head about, trying to figure out what alternative she could use.

“Ice cream then! I’m _sure_ I saw-” Hermione rushed to the fridge and wrenched the freezer door open. Tom’s smile was as wide as a Cheshire cat's as she wrenched the ice cream lid open only to find it filled with Nagini’s frozen mice treats, “Tom! What the hell!”

Ron looked ready to pass out.

“Nagini likes cold things sometimes.”

“Why’d you put it in an ice cream box!”

“Because you told me you didn’t like me putting Nagini’s food in our food containers, so I put them in old ice cream boxes.”

“Ron is going to go unconscious and we have nothing!”

“Give him some sugar.”

“What?”

“Sugar. Or cream. We have some whipped cream, I think.”

Hermione shoved the box of mice treats at Tom and riffled through their fridge for the can of whipped cream. She ran to Ron’s side and forced him to eat it. Tom closed the lid of the mice treats and put everything back into place.

He was immensely glad he hadn’t tried any of the ‘bolognese’. Hermione was a talented genius, he would be the first to admit it, but there were some things she had no skills with. Cooking, was one of them.

Tom had learnt that the first time he tried her cooking - when she had put salt into a batch of cookies instead of sugar and another time where she put cornflour instead of regular flour in a cake.

Ron recovered. He did end up fainting and Hermione had fretted over him the entire time. Throughout she wondered if Tom would help her take him to the local hospital to make sure he was okay. Tom refused. He ate a pepper, not arsenic. He would live. And he did. He was also very sick but that was to be expected.

That night, Hermione and Tom ordered in for the fourth night in a row.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The baking accidents are ones I myself have done. Among many others. I can cook. I can't bake. At all.


	13. In Which Draco and Theo Make Their Thoughts Known

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a bit of a change from the usual format. It's in Draco and Theo's POVs. I'm thinking of doing this every few chapters maybe, I'd really like to do it with Bella later on, as well as Harry and Ron.
> 
> Anyway, this hasn't been proof-read because I'm tired af but I've got a long weekend to enjoy and I decided to celebrate with a new installation. Enjoy and let me know if you guys have any suggestions on how the story should progress cause I literally write this on a whim. So why not on progress it on _your_ whims (_occasionally_). No promises tho.

Draco massaged the back of his neck, letting out his thousandth sigh of the afternoon - well, technically evening, now. Tom didn’t look up from his phone - really, what was so interesting that had his attention so thoroughly captured? - as he sat on top of a desk. Draco glanced at the clock nailed high up on the classroom wall, it was a half hour past six - they’d been let off early that day. Draco could have been at home playing or reading, not stuck watching the hands of the clock tick-tock the time away.

Tom didn’t even have football practice, but he stayed behind and forced Draco to stay back as well. Theodore and Blaise had hung around for the first hour and then they’d left - bastards, both of them. But the biggest bastard of all was undoubtedly Tom himself. He hadn’t spoken a word since his tart command for Draco to “stay” hours back - like Draco was some sort of _dog_. And like an obedient dog, Draco did.

A sneer threatened to pull at his lips but he suppressed it.

He knew what happened when you didn’t obey a direct command. Antonin’s arm was still stiff and Abraxas had a strained expression on whenever Tom’s name came up. Draco was glad Tom never gave him tough orders, he wasn’t sure he could follow them through to his satisfaction.

What a laugh though, a teenager - a _minor_ \- tossing his weight around like he was some seasoned mob boss. And maybe he was, maybe that’s why Tom was always on his phone - busy running a crime empire from his phone.

Tom’s phone began to ring, a soft, piano piece that was completely unlike Tom. He answered it after a beat.

“I’ll be out,” he said down the speaker, voice unnervingly neutral - the toneless tone he used when he was at ease, funnily enough.

He got to his feet and grabbed his bag. Not knowing what else to do, Draco followed. He had put his bag in his car hours back.

They walked in silence down the near empty hallways. Practice and clubs were winding down by now and only a few students and members of staff loitered behind. Draco rolled his shoulders, fighting off the shiver that wanted to wrack down his spine. There was something incredibly unnerving about an abandoned school - especially so late at night. Autumn was creeping closer and the nights were growing longer.

And while there was still sun out, it wasn’t as much as there had been just a month back.

They were spat out of the school building and Draco came to a stop when he spotted a familiar head of bushy brown hair. Hermione Granger was standing by the school gates, work bag slung over her shoulder as she shifted from one foot to the other.

Tom didn’t seem surprised as he neared Hermione and she greeted him with a smile. Tom didn’t smile back, but Draco noticed an obvious shift in his expression. It was almost like his face had grown _softer_ \- which was absurd considering who it was, but Draco was seeing a lot of things that didn’t make sense.

He approached carefully, as if treading on eggshells (or a landmines). Hermione noticed him over Tom’s shoulder and cocked her head to one side. She looked like she was about to say something before she spotted him.

A few years back (before an unfortunate incident behind the boat sheds that Draco tried fervently to forget on nights his brain refused to listen to him) he would have openly mocked the fact that Tom’s older _sister_ came to walk him home. Now though, he just inclined his head in a silent greeting and sent Tom a quizzical look. One he ignored, damn him, not that Draco expected any answer.

“Anyway, I’m sorry about being late. I had a meeting with a client that just wouldn’t end. At the rate this is going, I think I’m going to have to go in during the weekend to sort out some more stuff.”

“You didn’t have to come all the way here yourself, you know. I’m a big boy, I can manage it myself.”

“Not as big as you’d like to think.”

She grinned then, reaching a hand up and ruffling Tom’s hair. Draco’s heart shot up his throat and lodged itself there. Seconds stretched out into years as Draco waited for Tom to strike her down. And when nothing happened - no, when no _violence_ happened, when all Tom did was roll his eyes and shrug his backpack higher, Draco was sure he was going to faint. Theodore had tried giving Tom a friendly pat on the back when they were kids. Theodore couldn’t hold a pen properly for a while and when the teachers pressed him, he blamed it on an accident. Everyone else knew the truth though.

Tom had set it straight very early on that _no one_ got to touch him.

Hermione Granger, it seemed, was not no one.

“Come on, we’re late enough as is and I’m not letting you use this as an excuse to squeeze out of it.”

Tom let out a long-suffering sigh and gestured for her to lead the way. She did, casting one final glance Draco’s way before leaving, Tom following close behind. If Draco wasn’t imagining things, he was sure he saw a ghost of a smile on his face. 

Not no-one indeed. It looked like even Tom Riddle had someone who he had to pretend to be actually _human_ around. And if the easy way Hermione treated him was anything to go by, he had fooled her successfully.

**~ * ~**

If anyone asked him about Tom, Theodore would emphatically suggest that they stem any curiosity they had. Some matters just weren’t discussed. Some lines just weren’t crossed. Some people, well, some people should be kept at an arm’s length. In Tom’s case, there wasn’t any empirical distance large enough that you could keep him that could be deemed safe. 

Theodore wasn’t the religious sort exactly. His mother was, bless her, and his father gave charity to their local churches any time anyone started asking unwanted questions. But on a sunny afternoon in his early years of schooling, he learnt that the devil was real, and it had decided to take the form of Tom Riddle.

He probably ate babies and kicked kittens. Maybe even the other way around, if he got bored.

Now, if you met Tom, spent a few hours with him, even, you would think Theodore was being ridiculous. Kick kittens? Eat babies? Even the other way around? _That_ Tom Riddle? The suave, charming, model of human excellence wrapped up in a handsome package? _He_ was the devil incarnate? He probably helped old people walk across the street and opened doors for blushing girls and rescued cats stuck in trees. He was Good™. And anyone who said otherwise was speaking _utter_ rubbish.

Only it _wasn’t_ rubbish. Tom had kept Theodore around because Theodore knew how to keep his mouth shut (had learnt to very early on in his life when his father’s mistresses got younger and the beatings he got when he told his mother got harsher). And because Theodore knew when to mind his own business and had a very skewed understanding of what was moral and what was legal, he was privy to a fair amount more.

More than the others, he believed, perhaps even more than Antonin - poor bastard.

And because he was more aware of what Tom could do, of what Tom did, he also came to understand that if Theodore thought his father was a horrible human being, Tom would seem like the grand-daddy of all things illegal.

Bribing, assault, arson, larceny, _murder_ (this, though, he had inferred himself). The only real crime Nott Sr. committed was adultery, and maybe money-laundering. But Theodore was sure that as soon as Tom had his empire up and running, dirty money would be the only money he possessed. And if everything went according to Tom’s plans, Theodore would be implicit as well.

And as Theodore sat on Draco’s plush sofa, in the penthouse of some expensive apartment they’d rented for the weekend, too drunk to form coherent sentences but lucid enough to form comprehensible thoughts. Theodore honestly began to wonder just how he felt about joining Tom and his little gang. Well, in his defense, he had fairly little choice. But he still did, have choice that was. Not anymore, not with what he knew, but early on he had. And he had chosen to follow the dark haired, dark eyed, dark souled boy. He wondered if he’d chosen wrong.

Not like it mattered. He knew that if he left now, Tom would have no qualms in silencing him. Permanently.

It wasn’t all that bad. Tom was as benevolent as he was terrifying. If they obeyed and jumped when he tugged at their strings, he treated them well, treated them like _kings_.

Like right now.

He had had Draco procure the best weed on the market. He had snapped his fingers and had Antonin smuggle some of his father’s prized vodka. He had quirked a brow and Blaise had broken into his mother’s spirits cabinet and bestowed a full bottle of Firebrandy.

And Theodore and Bellatrix? They just had to find their base of operations and pay for it. 

And now they were sprawled all around the apartment, drunk and high out of their minds. Blaise was in one of the bedrooms, passed out amid the tangle of bodies from his impromptu orgy. Draco was nursing a hangover on the couch opposite to Theodore. Antonin was combating his own hangover by drinking himself into oblivion again with what was left of their drinks. Bellatrix was, well, _somewhere_ doing _something_ \- _neither_ of which Theodore was interested in knowing about. Tom was on his phone, texting his older, adopted sister that their class trip was going as well as he had said it would. She had texted him throughout the night, constantly checking up on him.

And while it was odd, Theodore also thought it was incredibly endearing. Someone actually cared for this ruthless bastard? Theodore had told his mother he’d be gone for the weekend. She didn’t ask, he didn’t tell. His father probably didn’t know and didn’t care. Draco’s father had called once, Blaise’s mother as well. But that was it. Everyone knew what they were _really_ doing. Not Hermione Granger though.

She was something Theodore had only thought existed in books and movies. A wide-eyed, naive virgin. Did that make Tom the horrible rake who would ruin her? The image was so ridiculous Theodore ended up laughing.

Draco groaned at him to shut up and Tom concurred.

Theodore ignored them and continued to giggle to himself.

It must have been the alcohol that was still thrumming through his veins, maybe the weed-induced fog in his mind, maybe the ease with which Tom was sprawled across the plush recliner to Theodore’s right. He would never be able to tell what had lowered all his defenses, his common sense, his self-preservation.

“Are you in love with Bushy-beard?”

‘Bushy-beard’ had been the incredibly mature nick-name Abraxas used to call Hermione back when both of them studied in Hogwarts. Theodore and the others had been young back then, but not too young to enjoy the undeniable wit in his particular form of attack. And while Hermione had certainly grown up to be - really, what was Theodore tip-toeing around for? Hermione was _hot_, like _what-the-fuck-where-had-Granger-been-hiding-that-body-_kind of hot. And while the nickname didn’t hold that same sort of appeal, they still used it in group-chats Tom was not part of.

“Who the fuck is Bushy-beard?”

Draco moaned loudly, complaining about his aches and pains in a tactless attempt to change the subject, but Theodore had dug his grave and he had to go lay in it.

“Granger, Hermione. Are you in love with her?”

Tom was quiet and Theodore wondered if he should repeat the question. The bear had woken up, after all, no harm would come if he poked a bit more. Draco had ceased his grumbling and now stayed quiet and watch the massacre that was about to unfold. Theodore considered what his last words to his mother had been. Had he told his father he hated him? He hoped so. 

“How is that any of your business?” Tom asked, when a considerable amount of time passed. His tone was even, deceptively so.

“I wanna know. Do you have like a weird crush on her?” Theodore began to laugh when a thought entered his head, “Like those porn videos about step-sisters. Is that it, Tom? Seen too many pornos?”

“Theo, shut the fuck up.” Draco hissed, but the damage had been done.

“You’re drunk, Nott, that’s the only reason you’re being so unbelievably stupid.” Tom said, “I’ll let it go this once, but I won’t be so generous next time.”

Theodore wasn’t sure why he kept goading him, “Its okay if you are, you know. I mean, have you _seen_ her? Jesus, of course you have you poor sod, no wonder you're always so high strung, stuck under one roof with that hot piece of-”

“Nott. You’re really pushing it. You’re useful, not irreplaceable.” He was still sounding so infuriatingly neutral. Didn’t the asshole _feel_? 

_Could_ he even feel?

Theodore opened his mouth, maybe to _really_ test his luck but Draco intervened. Later, when Theodore was sober and recalling the mess of the weekend, he would look back on this moment and realise that he owed Draco Malfoy his life. How - or more accurately _why_ Tom had decided to spare him was a mystery he didn't want to solve.

“Tom, before I forget, Abraxas texted me a few hours back. He said he had everything you needed and to invite you to dinner this Tuesday.”

Theodore could feel Tom’s eyes on him, even as he answered Draco. The temperature in the room had drpped several degrees.

“I will. Tell him not to open it.”

“Right. So, do I get to know what this is about or...?”

“Above your paygrade, Malfoy. Need-to-know basis.”

Draco grunted, “Right, I’ll just go fuck myself then.”

“That would be nice.” Theodore interjected , “Especially if it shuts you up.”

They had launched into a childish feud then. And if every word Draco threw Theodore’s way seemed a little forced - a little like he wanted to divert everyone’s attention from the calamity they had just avoided - Theodore was too far gone to appreciate the gesture. Because by the end of it, Theodore had forgotten why there had been a need to bicker, because his stomach was making its opinion on his hedonistic weekend known. And those opinions were neither kind, nor gentle.

But had Theodore been sober during this particular line of questioning, 1) he wouldn't have survived and 2) he would have seen how dark Tom's eyes had become when he'd heard Theodore speak so crassly about Hermione.

The bastard _did_ feel.

Some would argue too much. And would they really be wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theodore was a bit of a sleaze in this, but in my HC, he's actually a pretty nice guy - just in the wrong place and surrounded by the wrong people. I'm looking forward to writing Theo and Blaise a fair bit more, cause they're two of my fav Slytherin bois. Alongside Draco, of course. And my HC Bella. Cause OG Bella is just a bit too crazy to write into a fic like this. And, let's not forget the OG Spoi Boi, Tom.


	14. In Which A Grocery Run Ends with a Marriage Proposal (no, not Tom's)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aha... I've been gone for so long...  
It's a busy semester at my university and we've just had a lot of guests over - that's the excuse I'll go with. The following I think two more chapters are going to have a bit of plot I guess? As we navigate the cause of the aforementioned wedding bells. As a special bonus, I might even put Tom in a suit. We'll see. Maybe he'll go in his pyjamas just to spite the merry bride and groom.
> 
> Warning for ya'll, I'm tired and avoiding my work and I haven't proof-read it. So yeah, enjoy the result of my procrastination.

When one thinks of a criminal mastermind bent on taking over the world, they often imagine them to spend all their time in dark, dank offices surrounded by torture devices and the skins of their victims strewn across the walls in some macabre attempt at interior decorating. These criminal masterminds do not eat, drink or sleep without plotting. They _breathe_ dastardly plans. That is not true for all criminal masterminds.

Some, for example, just spend Saturday mornings grocery shopping with their adopted siblings. Some being Tom Riddle.

Tom pushed the cart and Hermione checked through the meticulous list she had made the night before. They went aisle by aisle picking up only what they needed. Tom didn't mind - it was horrendously domestic and horrible for his image but oddly he didn't particularly care. Which made no sense considering the lengths he went to to maintain said image; Hermione though, had this effect on him that made him just _not care_. Which was dangerous. But Tom did have a habit of flirting with danger.

"Do you want to get some frozen pizza?" Hermione asked as she looked up from her list. 

Despite having a working phone, Hermione liked to do things the old fashioned way and had a notepad and pen to tick everything they had gotten.

"It tastes like cardboard," Tom replied blandly as he stared at the collection of frozen boxes on offer.

"Do you plan on cooking then? Because we can't keep ordering in _every_-"

Tom reached around her and grabbed a box of margarita pizza. She snorted and ticked off an item that read suspiciously like 'food for Tom'. 

"What's left on the list?" He asked as he pushed their full cart after her.

Hermione hummed as she read through her list, "Just bread. Oh and I wanted to get some cookies."

"Just make sure they don't have any raisins in them."

"But I like raisins."

"And I don't. No raisins."

"Fine." She huffed, "Did you get the dry treats for Crookshanks?"

"Yes."

"The one he likes, right? Not those cheap ones from last time, you know how he can be."

"Yes, I know. And yes, I did."

They entered the bakery aisle and Hermione picked up some mixed grain bread that looked as appetising as it sounded, and then a bag of cookies. And then another one. When she caught the look on Tom's face, she added a third bag.

"Good. Does Nagini have enough mice?"

Tom considered it for a moment, "Yes. She'll be fine for a while. May I ask about all the cookies?"

"No, you may not."

"You know I don't care what you look like, but diabetes is a real thing, Hermione, that you've got to look out for."

They headed towards the checkout tills.

"I won't be eating them all in one go! I just need something for my cravings."

With their bill paid for (a lot higher than usual, given Hermione's sudden urge for cookies) they loaded their bags and headed to the parking lot. Theodore had been so kind as to lend them his gardener's car for their shopping trip, seeing as his own one didn't have any boot space or even back seats. The gardener's car itself wasn't anything fancy, a grey coloured Prius with pointless add-on features. But Hermione had an odd moral code and was uncomfortable enough as is borrowing some strangers thing that Tom didn't want to push for a better car.

“I still don’t know why you had to do this, Tom,” she muttered as he loaded the last bag in, “What must your friends think?”

“They think whatever I tell them to think.”

She closed the lid of the boot and shook her head.

“I still can’t believe Theodore Nott drives a Prius.”

He had never really told Hermione that it wasn’t actully his car.

“I never took you to be a snob, Hermione.”

“I’m not a snob! It’s just the name _Nott_ isn’t synonymous with small, Japanese hybrids."

"Maybe Nott had a change of heart."

"I somehow find that hard to believe."

Tom’s smile was big and toothy and annoyingly real.

Hermione drove them out of the parking lot and talked animatedly about a new article she read on a possible Rhodium vein found deep in a quartz mine. Tom replied when it was necessary but otherwise let Hermione carry on. It was amusing when Hermione went on one of her train of thoughts because from the rhodium vein they bounced from three more topics before they reached the intersection to their apartment complex when she recalled her earlier ire about him constantly pestering his friends for a car.

"Can you please not ask for the car again?"

"Not this again," he mumbled.

"No, listen to me. You always do this. You never listen to a word I say, Tom, and quite frankly, I'm tired of it."

He let out a sigh, "When have I not listened to you?"

"I have asked you - each and every time - not to ask for this car. We don't need one. We can make the walk, it isn't even that long and our neighborhood is quite safe. We could take the bus if it irks you too much to walk."

"Well sometimes, Hermione, what you have to say is utter nonsense. Why purposefully make our lives difficult? I can get us a car without spending a pound and we save time and energy. It's a win-win."

"Yes but we don't _need_ it. It's so environmentally unfriendly. Now if we lived miles away, I'd understand, but we don't."

"That's why I asked for the Prius - I'm aware of your debatable opinions on the environment. I actually wanted to use the town-car, but, as always I'm looking out for _your_ interests instead of my own. And I don't even get a word of acknowledgement."

She parked them in the underground parking lot and turned to glare at him. They would return the car once they'd unloaded their groceries. She wrenched the car door open and Tom followed, noticeably kinder to the car door and it's handle.

"So!" He said with forced cheer, "Let's agree to disagree-"

"You can't pretend global warming isn't an issue!"

"-and you can tell me another instance when I didn't listen to you."

"Do you know how much I hate it when you talk over me?"

He frowned her way over the top of the car, "What's got you in such a mood? You were perfectly fine at the store."

"I am not in a mood. I'm just sick of how you act like you're above everyone and everything."

"Alright, you're definitely in a mood," He paused as he thought back to her sudden urge for sweets, "Are you on your period?"

He ducked just in time to miss Hermione's satchel. If he hadn’t reacted in time, it would have hit him square in the face.

"You are such an ass!"

"And _you_ are violent, crazy and ridiculously melodramatic," he grinned back, grabbing her bag and dusting it off before slinging it across his body, "Come on, the quicker we unload the car, the quicker we can give it back."

Hermione grumbled under her breath as she worked and the glare she sent Tom’s way only caused his smile to widen. Grocery shopping was certainly a lot more fun than plotting - sometimes. 

The elevator ride up to their floor was quiet and they managed to get everything in one go. Tom had to rummage around for their house keys and he let Hermione in before he entered. It didn’t take them too long to unload their bags, even with Crookshanks slinking annoyingly between their legs and meowing loudly for attention. None of Tom’s threats of bodily harm worked as the cat just narrowed his ugly, yellow eyes and yelled another meow at him.

“Don’t talk to Crooks like that,” Hermione said from the fridge where she was setting the eggs into their place.

A jarring, generic ringtone blared into the air and Hermione popped her head away from the fridge.

“Answer it and put it on speaker.”

Tom did as he was told, grabbing a pack of biscuits Hermione had attempted to smuggle into their shopping cart and tearing into it. It crackled and then Harry’s voice spoke.

“Hello? ‘Mione?”

“Harry! What is it? You’re on speaker, by the way.” Hermione called as she continued to organize their groceries.

“Nothing - it’s - listen, are you busy right now?”

“Just unloading the groceries. Why?”

There was a pause and a crackle as Harry expelled air into his speaker. Tom bit into the biscuit, enjoying the combination of chocolate and biscuit. He used to make fun of Antonin for eating these, but he could see the appeal.

“I did it. I proposed.”

Hermione almost dropped the carton of milk. In a flash, Hermione leapt away from the fridge and grabbed at her phone, switching it off speaker mode.

“Harry?” She breathed, a whisper even as her mouth pulled up into a big smile. Tom nibbled at the second biscuit. “Did she say yes?”

Whatever Harry said made Hermione gasp out in delight. She began pouring out congratulations and exaltations over the phone. Tom eyed her as she paced about, asking rapid fire questions and barely pausing to hear his response.

“We have to go out and celebrate! Oh my god, this has been a long time coming!” She let out a strange noise that had Tom pause, fourth biscuit halfway to his mouth. It almost sounded like a _squeal_. He did not like this, he did not like it _one_ bit.

She talked for a few more minutes before she told Harry she had to call Ginny and send her well wishes to the Weasley girl. She ignored Tom and his brooding completely as he demolished his sixth biscuit, instead calling up the female Weasley and beginning her odd conversation pattern again. Tom had never seen her like this. All smiles and big energy. Even her hair seemed to become energised as it fought for its freedom from the confines of her braid, spreading out into the fearsome mane Tom preferred.

Tom didn’t think Hermione cared much for his preference as she jabbered on into her phone. He glanced at the time. A full half hour since Harry’s fateful call. Hermione never talked this long, even on work calls. Eventually she ended the call and turned to Tom, her smile a hundred-watts and too bright for him to handle.

“Well?” He asked, though he had a fair idea. 

“Harry and Ginny are getting married. I’m going to be the maid of honour.”

“Ah.”

“I knew they were going to end up together - they’ve been dating for so long after all, but I just never expected it to be so soon.”

“Hmm,” Tom bit into the second last biscuit as he watched her pace. Her hands moved erratically but her smile was edging towards manic. He wondered if he should leave the last one for her.

“And they’re going to hold it in only a few months. Can you believe that? Just a few months! I have to get a dress made and I’ll have to help Ginny sort everything out and oh god-” Hermione stopped dead and turned to look at Tom who was toying with the last biscuit, “Oh god, I just realised Ginny will be an awful bride. What’s that word? Monster bride?”

Tom hummed along but it didn’t seem to matter. Hermione was in another plane of existence. Tom ate the last biscuit, just to spite her. Not that she would realise for a while. She had her cookies to sate her, so Tom didn’t feel an ounce of shame.

And if the next few weeks were going to be like this, Tom felt it was only fair if he finished her cookies as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised I make Hermione incredibly violent, but let's be fair, if anyone was stuck around Tom for as long as she is, they're bound to become violent simply because he's such an ass.
> 
> Also, have you guys ever been yelled at by a cat? My cat likes to yell. I'm a deep sleeper and he manages to drag me out of my sleep with the volume of it.


	15. In Which Wedding Bells Sound (No, Still Not for Tom)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW it has been a TIDY moment since I updated this lol  
I have no excuse, I'll be honest. I'm just horrible at doing things.  
Anyway, as a special treat, all of you get an absolute fluff-fest (Or at least I hope it is. That was the general intention behind this chapter. Calm before the storm and all that) where Tom's dusty-cobwebbed heart feels. You can blame this on the hour-long version of Jeff Buckley's Hallelujah.  
I don't know much about these sorts of weddings, so I just kept it brief and used what little I knew from movies and books soooo enjoy!

As far as weddings went, it was fairly tame. Not that Tom had attended too many weddings (or any, actually). But Hermione had forced him to be her plus-one and though he had grumbled and groused and griped, he was secretly pleased. The entirety of the Weasley clan was in attendance and what few members constituted as Harry's family. Some shaggy haired man stood where Harry's parents would have been if he had any.

The ceremony took place in the Weasley family home - a house (really _house_ was a very liberal term) that had seen better days - and one that had often taken Hermione away during her summer breaks. Tom had never seen it before. His opinions on the Weasleys were an open secret and the Grangers never wanted to force the poor orphan boy anywhere he didn't want to go.

But when Tom finally laid eyes on the building, all the pent up disdain he felt for Hermione's red haired friends came out in full force. It was no secret that the Weasleys were destitute. Abraxas had sniggered about it often enough when he had been a school boy. And said destitution showed. Even though their garden was spacious and well-tended to, Tom could see some missing shingles on the roof. Haphazard renovations had been made such that some rooms seemed to defy gravity. It might once have been a magnificent pigsty. As it stood now, there was hardly anything _magnificent_ about it. But Hermione was sighing about the ‘good old days’ and Tom decided it would be safer to say nothing.

And as the wedding progressed, Tom's attention was torn from the hideous architecture and forced to focus solely on the festivities.

Hermione, Loony Lovegood and two other girls from Ginny’s football team were the maids of honour - all dressed in deep green satiny dresses with folds and frills and far more pomp and circumstance than one would think the Weasley's could afford. And maybe Tom was being biased, but Hermione certainly seemed to carry herself the best amongst them - especially more than the bride.

Hermione's hair had been tamed and forced into submission (Tom’s ears were still ringing from all the screaming and yelling that had gone into said taming) and wrapped into an elegant chignon. Hermione had never been one for makeup and it had been one of the other girls who had apparently helped her with it. They did a fantastic job with it, regardless and while it had taken almost an hour to apply, it seemed like Hermione had next to nothing on her face.

Throughout the ceremony, Tom’s eyes were on Hermione. Even as the rings were presented. Even when the vows were exchanged. Even when the newly wed couple kissed and flower petals and rice were being thrown around. Hermione’s face was split into the widest smile Tom had ever seen as she laughed and hollered along with the others - there was a tightness in Tom’s chest that bordered on painful. 

And when she talked with Ron and the remaining Weasley brood her smile didn’t slip once. And then her gaze drifted and landed on Tom and somehow her smile seemed to grow impossibly wider.

Someone more poetic than Tom would have likened the moment when a dusty, rusted machine was jerked back into life. There was no other explanation for the way his heart convulsed, for how it _fluttered_. Was he suffering from a heart attack? He was far too young but there were always exceptions. Maybe he ate something wrong.

She clutched onto the bouquet of pastel flowers and neared him. And though she was diverted by friends and family of the newly weds offering congratulations and compliments, Tom noticed how her eyes kept darting over to him. He made it easier for her by standing up, buttoning his top suit button and correcting his cuff discreetly as Hermione approached him. 

He had had Blaise give him a thorough run-down of suit etiquette and the boy had only been too happy to help. And while Blaise had gotten away with a lot of curt comments Tom would not have normally allowed, he certainly had been effective. Mr Granger had taught him the absolute basics - match tie width to lapel width and belts to shoes. But Mr Granger had also been a man who had built himself from a middle class upbringing - he wasn't born into money. Blaise had far more to offer in this regard. Especially since their measurements matched. 

Anyone else would have handled the watch that sat on Tom's wrist far more carefully than he was and that was where Tom differed from everyone else.

But as Hermione approached him, any thoughts of his superiority in the face of Fate's cruel attempts at his success were forgotten and only Hermione remained.

"I prefer it when your hair is down," was the first thing that came out of his mouth.

Hermione's jaw dropped. And then she whacked him lightly with the bouquet. Petals fluttered down. One stuck to his suit. Her smile didn't dim. He wasn't sure it could. He didn’t want it to.

"You certainly scrubbed up well." She replied back reaching up and fixing his tie. It was immaculate, he had made sure of it. She brushed at his shoulder, dislodging the petal. He found himself wishing earnestly that she wouldn't stop touching him. The thought sat uncomfortably in his stomach.

"Apparently a t-shirt and jeans weren't wedding-appropriate attire." 

"Imagine that."

Words danced across his tongue. Scenes in trashy romantic movies Bellatrix insisted on subjected them all to played through his mind. His body wouldn’t obey and instead, all he could do was stare at Hermione. And she stared back. Her expression one of pure exhilaration, of genuine happiness. The sounds around them drowned away and all he could hear was the thrumming of his heart and the pulsing of his blood.

“Do you plan on dancing?” Hermione asked after a long time passed where they both just stared at each other.

The words died on his tongue and Tom forced away a flash of regret. He’d have to examine the weird emotions he felt later. Right now he had to answer Hermione.

“Oh certainly. Molly Weasley even asked for the first dance. I found I couldn’t refuse. Actually could not. She threatened to kick me out.”

Hermione raised both brows and Tom’s smile dipped from innocent to sly. Her responding laughter was contagious.

“Behave, Tom, or I might kick you out myself,” Hermione grinned, looping her arm through his and leading the way to an area close to the ramshackle house where a congregation of Weasleys had gathered. Tom followed obediently.

Just before they reached, he leaned close and whispered in her ear, “Hermione, I _always_ behave.”

She shivered as a gust of wind blew by them and hurried them onward.

When she unhooked her arm from Tom’s to give the Weasley men individual hugs, Tom was left to stuff his hands into his pockets and not look petulant. He didn't feel at all jealous that his favourite toy was ignoring him. Lord that sounded pathetic - he didn't like thinking of himself as pathetic.

One of Ron’s many older brothers was having an animated conversation with Hermione about animal rights while the twins were off to the side, spiking the punch with a suspicious amount of vodka. Tom made a note to have said punch. Maybe he could convince Hermione to as well - she was more fun drunk, after all. And less violent.

When Hermione found a pause in her conversation, she drew Tom towards her with a beckoning motion.

“This is my _adopted_ brother, Tom Riddle. Tom, this is Charlie, he's Ron's second older brother. He’s a biologist.”

“Pleasure!” The Weasley said as he held his hand. In any other setting, Tom would have pulled off a sneer even the Malfoys would have been proud of. But Tom was not in any other setting and instead he shook Charles Weasley’s hand and smiled as politely as he could. “He’s got a strong grip!”

Hermione’s smile edged on polite and Tom let go before she attempted bodily harm.

“You know how boys can be,” She said with a strained laugh.

“So what is it that you’re studying, Tom?”

“Medicine.”

Hermione blinked at him, as surprised as he was. The word had just blurted itself out. That hadn’t happened before - Tom made sure to measure and weigh his words with careful precision to ensure they would have the most effect when delivered.

“Oh that’s brilliant! A doctor? Nurse? Some other field?”

“That,” Tom said slowly, “I have yet to decide.”

“Well, that’s all right then. You’ve got some time to sort it all out I reckon. Oh, hang on, Ron’s calling me. We’ll continue our discussion later, Hermione. Nice talking to you, Tom. I hope you succeed with whatever choice you end up making!”

Tom simply nodded as the Weasley flashed them a big smile and lopped off to see what his ginger haired-sibling wanted. Hermione was looking at him and he was making an active effort not to look back. The vines that crept up the far wall seemed well tended to. Did vines even need tending?

“Medicine?” She asked, after a painfully long bout of silence.

“Yes.”

“When did you decide that?”

“A while back,” He lied.

“And you decided now to tell me?”

He shrugged, “I don’t know how that’s any of your business.”

Hermione didn’t like that. She bristled - physically _bristled_; not unlike the ginger haired (goodness, why was he em>surrounded by ginger-haired beasts?), snaggle-toothed menace she kept at home. Tom was fairly sure if she had fur it would all be standing on end. Instead, it was her hair that seemed to electrify with her indignation.

“_None of my business_?” She echoed, “None of _my_ business?”

"Wait a moment, I didn't mean-"

She raised a hand to stop him. His mouth hung open, tongue eager to weave together a placating lie to soothe her but from her expression alone it was clear she wouldn't fall for it. Her eyes were molten as she narrowed them at him and her hair fought to free themselves from their confines. Tom concentrated on her hair, finding that it was easier to watch it's valiant attempt to escape rather than the look of fury Hermione had aimed at him.

“You know what? No. This is a good - _happy_ day and I’m not going to let you or your hurtful comments bother me today.”

He tried again to speak, to defend himself but a well timed glare subdued him once more. She gathered herself up - steeling her spine and raising her chin up high - before turning her nose at him.

“And you are going to dance.”

_That_ Tom was not going to allow.

“I refuse.”

“I don’t care. You are dancing and that’s final. Now, I want to go talk to the twins. You can join me if you want or stand around and not talk to anyone.”

The quirk of her brow and purse of her lips told Tom everything he needed to know. He offered his arm wordlessly and she hooked hers through his with far more force than before and all but dragged him along behind her.

“You’re being incredibly unreasonable you know,” Tom said as they made their way to the front of the house.

“I find I don’t care what you think.”

She ignored the narrow-eyed glower he sent her way.

**~ * ~**

The tent that had been pitched for the late night afterparty would have been described by some as ‘magical’ or ‘ethereal’ or ‘romantic’ or some other pretentious descriptor that Tom in no way could relate to.

A loose white canopy had been flung ‘artistically’ so that the poles and suspension rods were hidden by the folds and it looked like the material was floating in the air, unsupported. Fairy lights criss crossed overhead, in a mesmerising mimic of the constellation on a clear night. The only source of light, and that too fairly muted, 'mood' lighting, were candles placed in various, up-cycled ornaments. On the table Tom was currently occupying, nursing a glass of infuriatingly tasty (and unfortunately not-spiked) punch the candles were in a glass box with a gold casing that he was sure you could find in a flea market. He snorted into his drink. 

The newlyweds were slow dancing to some soft instrumental version of a song that was released well before Tom had even been conceived. Hermione was by the edge of the dancing area, talking softly with Ron, a flute of punch in her hand. Most of the other guests had retired and only Ginny’s siblings and their closest friends remained - either slow dancing or chatting quietly as they sipped at the punch.

Tom checked his watch. It was almost midnight. Tiredness ebbed through his body, pounding resolutely through his brain as he took another sip. He wanted to go home, but something told him Hermione wasn't going to budge until the sun came up.

Ron said something Tom couldn’t quite catch and Hermione giggled like a schoolgirl. A soft flush had settled itself across her face, and down her throat. And what little of her clavicle one could see. 

Tom gripped his flute of punch tightly.

Ron ran a hand through his hair, his eyes darted to Hermione’s lips as she drank the last sip of punch. Ever the gentleman, Ron offered to refill it. Tom took that as his moment to swoop in. Abandoning his drink he got to his feet and strode confidently towards Hermione, surprising her when he held her elbow and guided her to the dance floor.

“I - Tom! You scared me.”

“Time to fulfil my promise.”

“Promise?” She asked. Her eyes were glazed. Clearly she had drunk a fair amount more of the spiked punch than Tom had before the twins had been busted by their mother. Well, it would only work in his favour.

He curled her in close to himself, slipping his hands onto her waist. Blaise had been very particular when it came to slow dancing (lessons Tom _hadn’t_ asked for, but Blaise had imparted with vigour regardless - Tom would have to give him his appreciation later) that Tom’s hands had to be placed exactly. Hermione allowed herself to be led slowly onto the stage in a simple two-step routine even as she slid her hands up and rested them on Tom’s shoulders.

“I didn’t know you could dance,” Hermione murmured as she swayed with him. She had an easy, relaxed expression on her face even as her eyes sparked with mirth. Her hair had escaped the chignon and now lazy curls of hair brushed at her bared shoulders. Tom allowed a smile to slip onto his own face.

“I may or may not have had classes.”

“You took classes to dance? You?”

Tom shrugged as he moved her into an easy spin that she obliged him. When she returned, he brought her as close to himself as he dared. Hermione had a smile of her own now as she looked at Tom - and only Tom. His heart squeezed again and he grimaced at the sensation.

“Tom? Is something wrong?”

He considered lying. But if it was an actual problem, Hermione had to be the first to know. She tried to get them to stop but Tom continued, having her spin twice for him before she returned.

“I - my heart’s been acting up all day,” he murmured as she linked her hands behind his neck. He shivered at the contact and she raised a brow at that.

“You have been acting rather odd today.”

“It’s probably nothing to worry about.”

Hermione hummed as she rested her head against Tom’s chest. His breath caught, lungs squeezed and his heart beat stuttered. He fought to remain calm as her hair tickled his cheek. They swayed in that spot, chest to chest, nose to nose (if Hermione tipped her head back). Another shiver wracked down his spine and he found himself squeezing Hermione impossibly closer. And she reciprocated. 

“You’re being very affectionate tonight,” she whispered. Her breath tickled the skin of his neck.

“Seeing the love Harry and Ginny shared, well, let’s just say that I’m a changed man. There was some quote Bellatrix keeps saying. Where there's love, there's life.”

Hermione moved away (Tom tried not to whine at the loss of warmth) and snorted in a very unlady-like manner.

“Okay well, one, that’s utter shit. All of it. Especially what Bella said. And two, you’re not even a man yet, calm down.”

Tom narrowed his eyes playfully at that as he spun her around, enjoying the yelp of surprise she let out as she was taken by surprise. He brought her closer to himself and then, with a wide smile that was all teeth, he brought her down into a dip. Hermione squeaked and grasped at his neck, forcing him momentarily off balance before he righted them both.

“Tom!” She yelled as he chortled and let go of her. She wobbled but regained her footing.

“Your face Hermione! Oh lord, you should have seen your face!”

Tom had to distance himself for a moment so he could laugh even as he fended off Hermione’s assault. His arm ached as she pounded at it with her fists but the pain wasn't registering.

“Real smooth there, Riddle!” Fred (or was it George?) grinned as his brother wolf whistled.

Hermione righted herself, running a hand to smooth her hair, the soft blush that had lightly coloured her face a gentle pink was now fire-engine red. Tom found he wanted to know just how red she could become. 

“I didn’t drop her, did I?” Tom called back, the fluttering in his stomach muddling with his thoughts. He held his hand out to Hermione, “I promise I won’t try to dip you this time. So long as you don't belittle me.”

Hermione scoffed and pushed an erratic curl of hair away from her face.

“Absolutely not.”

“Come on,” Tom implored, flashing his most charming smile, the one that had most girls in his year all too happy to obey him, “I’ll behave if you do. Promise.”

She shook her head at him, rolling her eyes at his antics.

Tom remained patient, his hand out, smile unwavering.

She bit her lip

And took his hand.

"Don't you _dare_ try to dip me again."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

**~ * ~**

They ended up sleeping at the Burrow. Tom and Hermione took up Ginny’s room. Hermione was on the bed, hair a mess, dress crumpled to hell and back while Tom had settled onto the floor with only a pillow for comfort. He broke the one promise he made to himself, but in the morning he found he didn’t much care.

What did it matter if he spent a night at the Burrow when he spent it with Hermione? What did it matter, if he was laughing and dancing with Hermione well into the night? What did it matter if he was happier than he had ever been before?

When Tom trudged down the steps to the kitchen the next morning, groggy and sore beyond belief, and was greeted by a volley of ‘hallo’s and ‘good morning’s, he found it didn’t matter. Not as much as he had feared it would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much longer now! I have like a pretty solid idea of how I want to end this fic. In fact, I know it'll be around five or six more chapters (plus one or two bonus ones featuring other character's POVs because Bella, Harry and Ron all deserve a little love, even if I can't write them to save my life).
> 
> But famous last words and all that - let's see how many chapters it actually takes me.
> 
> Also, please envision Tom and Blaise slow dancing together.
> 
> Also also, I've said this before but I feel like Hermione is incredibly violent. But like. Wouldn't _you_ want to whack petulant teenage Tom???


	16. Birthday Shenanigans Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at that! Not only two chapters in the same day but part one of a two parter that will reeeeaaaallly get things going. Now that I'm reaching the end of the story. Look I'm not good at this stuff - it's why I have to plan extensively otherwise stuff that shouldn't _have_ plots get plots.
> 
> Anyway this is a super short one, but still - enjoy!
> 
> And the next part should be posted soon. I can't make any promises though since I suck at deadlines too.

It was Hermione’s birthday. Well almost. One minute and forty-five seconds before her birthday, to be precise. Tom sat beside her on their living room sofa, texting Theodore Nott and confirming that the present he had told him ages back to procure was, in fact, procured and the idiot hadn’t been lying about it. Nott sent a picture that Tom inspected carefully and promptly deleted. Hermione didn’t snoop through his phone, but better safe than sorry.

Hermione herself was curled up on the other end of their two-seater sofa, Crookshanks lodged in the scant space between them. She had a book in hand and her hair pushed back in a messy braid. The only light sources were Tom's phone and the lamp by Hermione's side.

Tom checked the time. A few seconds left. His heart beat picked up in anticipation.

Twelve o’clock came.

And passed.

Tom glanced at Hermione. Her eyelids were drooping. It was a rare weekend where she got time for herself and she had spent it reading some books she’d put on the back-burner. 

“Hermione,” he murmured, softly, so as not to disturb her if she really was in the clutches of sleep.

“Hmm?” She murmured back, forcing her eyes back onto the page.

“You should go bed and sleep.”

“Hmm.” She responded.

Tom huffed and went back to his phone. He’d wait until she went to sleep. It didn’t take her long. The next time Tom looked her way, she was fast asleep. He snorted to himself and set his phone away. Her finger had marked the page she was on and he slid a piece of paper in to act as a temporary bookmark. Hermione _hated_ dog-earring books and had drilled it into him at a young age that dog-earring was borderline sacrilegious. The memory of Hermione lecturing him, a finger stuck out as she prattled on and on in a high-pitched, obnoxious voice about how to treat books, brought an unintended smile to his face. He shook his head, trying to physically dislodge the thought and instead focus on the task at hand. It would be awkward, but Tom was sure he could lift her up without jostling her around too much.

He slid his arm around her back and moved her until she’d uncurled enough for him to slip his arm underneath her knees. He heaved up and she curled into him even more - like some sort of massive, content cat - resting her head against his shoulder as if she had been waiting for the moment.

“Shit, you’re heavy,” he muttered under his breath as he began the journey to her room. 

Crookshanks watched him with his ugly, yellow eyes, tail swishing rhythmically from his new spot on the coffee table. Tom ignored the cat, more concerned with how he was going to open the bedroom door without dropping Hermione. And while he did eventually manage it, it wasn't without a fair amount of acrobatics.

Hermione shifted closer against him, all but burrowing into him. Hair that had come loose from her braid tickled his skin. Tom stopped for a moment in the open doorway. The pain in his arms diminished as he just stood there. Hermione was breathing evenly, her breath warm as it touched his skin. 

In the corset-rippers that Bella read (aloud, on voice notes, much to the chagrin of the entirety of the Knights of Walpurgis group chat), this was the moment that Tom should have been overcome by Hermione's naturally floral-fruity scent. He wasn't though. In fact, Hermione didn't really smell of anything.

She was warm, and felt so small in his arms even though she didn't weigh as little as she looked. Fragile. As someone who had taken a life (multiple lives, if Billy's pet rabbit and later, Billy himself, counted) it was almost frightening how easy it was to crush the life out of someone. Tom wouldn't even have to try very hard. He could probably strangle Hermione with her own hair. He was sure he could do it before she even realised it. A far more peaceful death than Tom had granted some.

But the thought didn't bring him any sort of comfort; in fact just the idea of Hermione's lifeless body sickened him. The hair at the back of his neck stood to attention and his skin crawled.

He moved then, shifting carefully through her dark bedroom towards her bed. He made sure to take careful steps - feeling his way. If anyone looked at Hermione (and her workspace) they would assume she was a clean freak. And she was - she cleaned to de-stress, after all. But somehow, she always managed to miss her own bedroom when she was in one of her moods. She never missed his though, even if the only thing that needed to be done was make the bed.

Tom grimaced as he kicked the third piece of clothing away before it tangled up around him.

"Why is your entire closet on the floor?" He muttered to himself.

Hermione just curled impossibly closer to him and let out a contented sigh.

He set her on her bed as soon as he could. His arms ached and his muscles burned but he was sure to be careful. He grabbed her fluffy, red blanket from the floor and set it around her. She curled up to the side, her back to Tom and her arms around her pillow.

"Thanks," she mumbled, so quietly Tom almost didn't hear.

"So you were awake?" He asked, a smile tugging at his lips, "And you made me carry you all the way here?"

"Too sleepy," was her response.

Tom reached a hand out and carefully worked her hair out of its braid, uncoiling the thick, frizzy ropes until they lay there, spread out behind her like a cape.

"I'll let you go this once," he said, as he ran his hand through her hair, "Just because it's your birthday."

She hummed, but Tom knew she couldn't understand a word he was saying, too far gone in the throes of sleep. In the spur of the moment, Tom bent low and brushed his lips against the crown of her head. He thought about going lower - kissing her properly. 

He didn't.

"Happy birthday, Hermione," he whispered as he retreated into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! I had this scene written out near the very beginning actually lol but I hadn't actually liked it all that much. Still, it had to be done and here we are. 
> 
> Just like four more chapters to go. And maybe a prologue that involves a time-jump. We'll see.
> 
> Question though: what would you like Tom to end up doing? I know I said medicine before but the idea of being a politician or a crime lord also floated by. If you guys want him to do anything in particular, let me know!


	17. Birthday Shenanigans Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL! It has been a tidy moment since I last wrote and I understand that and I am very sorry about it - but I've been working on other stuff and got distracted by my other hobbies and commitments and basically I really am sorry but this has been a long time coming. On another note - we're getting pretty close to the end!
> 
> I apologize, I am aware this isn't my best but I was just desperate to get this chapter over with so I can go forward with the next bits.
> 
> On a compeltely different note, this story is under the name 'Car Crash' on my Google Docs and if that isn't this entire series summed up in two words, I don't know what else could be.

"A wish?" She asked, crinkling her nose, "What are you, six?"

"Humor me," Tom replied, not looking up from his phone. Nott was asking about the wrapping paper and matching ribbons. Tom didn't care, so long as the book itself was present and unharmed. Nott did not seem to appreciate this lack of enthusiasm despite the efforts he had undergone to procure the present, but Tom never did care about what Theodore Nott thought. The scathing text he sent back seemed to cement this fact, because Nott went quiet.

"I don't really have any wish," she trailed off, "Or actually… it can be anything, right?"

Tom tore his eyes away from his phone and quirked a brow at Hermione - her uncharacteristic hesitancy catching his attention.

"Within reason," he said slowly as he watched her fidget. She fidgeted when she was at odds with herself. What devious wish did she have?

"Harry, Ron and Ginny wanted to take me out - to check out some of the pubs in our area."

"Pub crawling," he deadpanned, "They're taking you pub-crawling."

"Yes, yes, call it what you want. Well, I wanted you to join. But only if you behave well."

Both Tom's brows hiked up. _Hermione_ wanted to take _Tom_ on a _pub-crawl_? Something was very wrong.

"And your wish is?"

"Your good behaviour."

Tom ignored the messages Nott was sending him. He had far more pressing matters. Like what the _hell_ was happening.

"You want _me_," he began, taking the time to enunciate in case he had misheard, "to join _you_ and your idiotic friends as you get horrendously drunk? While I certainly don't mind, I hope I don't need to remind you that I'm still underaged."

Hermione's face became a lovely pink, from the apples of her cheeks to the tip of her nose, "I know very well, Tom Riddle. But this is a special occasion."

Tom's lips twitched but he kept his face impassive. Hermione squirmed.

"You know the bartender could face serious fines for serving a minor, correct?"

"Don't you dare throw the law at me, Tom," But her words had no bite, and then she sighed heavily in a way he was familiar with, "But you're right. It was a stupid idea. Forget it."

"No," Tom said.

"No?"

"No. I want to join you. And I'll be on my best behaviour."

"I don't think it's a good idea, Tom. I wasn't thinking it through clearly. You're right, they _would_ get fined if someone found out. I don't want to risk that."

"Well, we'll just have to make sure no one does, won't we?"

She rolled her eyes.

"Need I remind you that Harry is an officer of the law?"

"We'll see how well he remembers the oaths he took when he's downed a few Jager bombs."

Hermione's brows furrowed and she crossed her arms as she stared at him.

"_Why_ do you know what a Jager bomb is?"

"I'm underaged, Hermione, not stupid." She looked like she wanted to say something further but Tom continued before she could, "What time will you go out?"

She pursed her lips and eyed him.

"After dinner. That'll just be us two, the others have a 'surprise' they wanted to put together for me later tonight."

"I might have to leave for a bit to grab your present."

"Not socks and a toothbrush again."

"I can't promise. And it's supposed to be the _thought_ that counts - not the actual gift itself. When did you become so materialistic?"

The indignant flush on Hermione's face was one of Tom's most treasured expressions. She knew he did it on purpose and she never disappointed him. The resulting argument lasted a half hour and was absolutely ridiculous and Tom and Hermione were both smiling and laughing by the end of it.

****

~ * ~

Nott had taken his sweet time showing up and Hermione had texted him the name of the third pub they had gone to. It was an alright one - the beer they served tasted good and it wasn't in a seedy neighbourhood. A good deal better than some of the seedier pubs Tom frequented when he needed _things_ done.

The four of them had found a table in the back, where the light was dimmer and the crowd thinner. It was a good spot, he’d give them that. Tom moved smoothly across the packed pub floor, dodging flailing limbs and errant elbows as people laughed and talked and drank the night away.

It wasn’t even particularly late - touching on eight, but from how deep some people were in their cups, you’d think they’d been at it as soon as they left work. And maybe they were, who was Tom to judge? 

It was Ginny who spotted him when she leaned over to her newly beloved - freshly back from their Spanish honeymoon. She waved him over, a neutral smile on her face. Considering it was their third pub, they were all probably more than a bit tipsy. When Tom neared their table, the only free spot was by Hermione and he slid in quietly.

“Tom!” Hermione exclaimed, so happy and carefree, “You actually came!”

Ron said something under his breath that earned a snort from Harry and a sharp elbow from his sister. Tom focused his attention on Hermione instead of the buffoon and held out the present to Hermione.

“Of course I’d come. We agreed about it before dinner.” He nudged it into her hands, ignoring the curious looks the other three were sending them, “Here, the reason for my tardiness. Happy birthday, Hermione.”

Hermione, red-faced and glazy-eyed, seemed to sober up as she looked first at Tom and then the package in her hands wrapped in glimmering wrapping paper that, even in the low light, spoke of taste and elegance and other such nonsense Tom didn’t particularly care for. Because it was what the pretty wrapper _contained_ that was important.

“Go on, open it then,” Ron called from the fringes, his sister and brother-in-law bobbed their head in agreement.

And it took Hermione a long moment to. She set it carefully on the table, as if it was a bomb, and timidly undid each piece of tape. The anticipation was thick in the air and the generic music playing over the speakers was drowned out by the thudding of his heart. Tom didn’t get _nervous_.

He licked his lips as Hermione removed one leaf of the wrapper and then, finally the other. The Weasley and Weasley-Potter were straining in their seats, half-standing so they could peer at what Tom had gotten.

Hermione gasped, low and quiet, when she made out the title on the cover. She whipped her head over Tom’s way, her eyes dark with a silent question. A moment later, he nodded and her eyes widened and she seemed to sober immediately as she gingerly opened the cover and opened it to the first page. She swore under her breath.

“What is it then, Hermione?” Ginny pestered, “It looks like a book.”

“Jesus,” Ron snorted as he settled back in his seat, “the way you’re ogling it, you’d think it’s the Holy Grail.”

“This is even _better_ than the Holy Grail. Tom how did you get your hands on this? This is a _signed first edition_!”

“I’m well aware,” Tom replied drily, his lips quirking up into a smile when he saw how bright her eyes were as she poured over the cracking, yellow pages. “Took me quite a while, actually - the better part of the year.”

“I… how did you _pay_ for this? It must have cost a fortune!”

Draco and Theodore had complained of the same thing as they handed over their father's credit cards. Tom waved his hand as if to shoo the issue away. He didn’t think she’d appreciate his methods. Would call it malicious or immoral or some other narrow-minded drivel. 

“Doesn’t matter. Point is, you are now the proud owner of the sole signed, first edition copy. The other one burnt down when Windsor went up years back.”

That got Harry’s attention, “Wait, which book is it?”

Tom rolled his eyes and leaned forward, swiping the untouched pint in front of him. Harry let out a noise of protest and turned to Hermione, but she was engrossed in delicately leafing through each page, her lips parted and her cheeks red with excitement. Tom lifted the glass in a mock salute and drained it. 

“Stay within your limits, Riddle,” Harry grumbled, getting to his feet, “Anyone else want another round, seeing as I am suddenly without one?”

Ron bobbed his head enthusiastically, “I’d love another one. ‘Mione, you want another whiskey?”

“What?” she called distractedly, barely lifting her nose away from the pages, “No, I’m fine thank you.”

“Hermione!” Ginny snapped, “You’re here to drink and flirt, not read!”

“Flirt?” Tom asked, “Hermione? Flirt?”

“She’s a young woman,” Ginny exploded, clearly she couldn’t hold her liquor as well as the other three, “and having a dastardly shadow like you hanging off of her all the time doesn’t do her any good. She’s got _needs_, Riddle.”

Tom didn't exactly like the idea of some random man fulfilling any _needs_ Hermione had.

“_Dastardly_? My, you Weasley always get seem to get smarter the more we meet. Which Enid Blyton book did you peruse to get _that_ five dollar word?”

Ron groaned out loud, “Remind me again who invited you?”

“The birthday girl. A special _invitation_ too,” He replied smugly.

“She’s out of her bloody mind.”

“_She_ is right here,” Tom grinned into his beer, taking another swig of the disgusting thing and enjoying the warmth spreading through his body, “And if she wasn’t making love to that book, I’m sure she’d be very offended.”

“She really is enamoured with that thing, isn’t she?” Ron murmured, “Hermione! Put it away, for god’s sake. We’re here to get drunk and make piss-poor decisions, not _read_!”

Hermione huffed loudly and carefully shut the book away, trying to cover it up in the gift--wrap and gently slipping it into the hideous satchel that her mother had gifted to her years ago.

“Stop yelling, Ronald, you’re causing a scene. Where did Harry go?”

“He went to get a refill because your brother has sticky fingers.”

“_Adopted_ brother,” Hermione and Tom corrected in unison. They glanced at one another, Tom with a smile and Hermione with that far-away look. He was beginning to worry.

“That was weird,” Ginny said slowly, “but anyway, back to what’s important. Mainly that I want Tom to return home alone tonight.”

The far-away look was wiped away instantly and was replaced with open suspicion, “And why is that?”

“Because you are going to get laid.”

“Gross,” Ron announced as he downed his shot, squeezing his eyes shut and groaning, “Fuck, that burnt.”

“I think I’d like to go home. Especially with this,” Hermione motioned at her satchel, “I think getting laid can wait.”

Tom ardently wished the conversation would switch. His stomach was coiling and it was getting very hot in the pub.

“When are we going to switch pubs then?” He asked before Ginny could open her mouth, “For pub-crawling, you lot are spending an awful lot of time in just the one.”

“I don’t think we will,” Ron admitted, “Ginny’s too plastered to go to another one.”

“Hey! I am not!”

“Whatever you say, Ginerva,” Ron cooed back at his sister, laughing when she tried to hit him. At least Tom found out why Hermione was as violent as she was - it was those unkempt, wild Weasley. Because of course it was them.

“Can’t hold your liquor, Potter?” He grinned.

“I can hold it plenty well, _Riddle_.”

“Want to bet?”

“Tom,” Hermione said sternly. 

"Oh you are _so_ on you snot-nosed brat."

Tom snorted at that, turning to his side, “Join us, Hermione. Let’s see who has the best metabolism.”

“This is a terrible idea,” Hermione huffed back, “But fine, _fuck it_. It’s my birthday and I’m going to enjoy it.”

“That’s the spirit! Ron, come on, help me carry the drinks back!” Ginny exclaimed, wobbling up to her feet and marching over towards where the bartenders were dealing with the drunk crowds. With a groan, Ron staggered after her to help her carry the drinks.

That left Tom and Hermione alone. A situation Tom normally preferred vastly.

“I don’t think I have any words for how much I love your gift, Tom.”

“‘Thank you’ tends to work for these circumstances.”

She shook her head. Her hair was trapped in a braid and Tom was overcome with the urge to release and watch it poof around her like some frizzy mane.

“A ‘thank you’ just isn’t enough. This is one of the best gifts I have ever received. I - well, looks like I have my work cut out for me when it’s your birthday, don’t I?”

Ah, this was the exact outcome that Tom had been _dreaming_ about. Those precise words slipping from her lips. That stupid book had frustrated him in the start, but now it was all worth it.

“Well, I know exactly what I want.”

“Oh?” She asked, tipping her head to the side, “And what’s that?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.” Harry, Ginny and Ron were returning, Tom could hear their voices, loud amidst the din. It was now or never. Tom leaned in close and brushed his lips against her cheek. Simple, quick, barely there. “Happy birthday,” he whispered, watching how her eyes widened and a visible shudder went down her spine. He righted himself when the rest of the group finally arrived, a worrying amount of alcohol in their hands.

“So whose idea was this again?” Harry asked as he set down his pint as well as the two shot glasses filled with what looked like vodka onto the table. Ginny and Ron unlaid their glasses as well and Tom counted about five each, with an extra one for Ron. Hermione was still catatonic, eyes wide as she continued to look at him.

“Your alcoholic wife, Potter. I’d keep an eye on her if I was you.”

“And I would watch my mouth unless you want to go home with a black eye, _Riddle_.”

He grinned, razor sharp as he picked up his first shot, “What is it with the police these days and open brutality?”

“Oh fuck off, Riddle,” Ron grumbled as he downed his shot and instantly regretted it, “_Fuck_! Why do I keep getting these? Actually, why do you guys keep _letting_ me get these?”

Tom downed his second shot - he was going to have to be well and truly drunk to be able to stand Hermione's trio of idiots. Might as well get to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! I swear the next chapters will be a bit better. Just a little.


	18. In Which Tom Cuts Off Loose Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aha, whoops? It has been a while? I'm sorry?  
But, we are getting close to the end! Yes, imagine that, a fic about literally whatever idea floats through my head is coming to a (hopefully) resolved (and reasonable) ending. We aren't there yet though, so let's see how long I can milk this fanfic.  
Anyway, enjoy!  
Also, smoking is bad for you, kids.

In an alleyway, three streets away from a certain private psychiatric clinic, and tucked safely away from the prying eyes of the general public, Tom Riddle stood with his back against the wall and smoked a cigarette. It was getting cold as it neared sunset, the glow at the end of the cigarette butt reflecting the dying rays almost poetically. Had Tom been more of an artist, he was sure he could wax some ridiculous lyrical about the futility of man all while using a burning cigarette as a metaphor. Tom was _not_ an artistic man, and as such couldn't do any of that.

Instead, he let out a stream of smoke and glanced down at his wrist, pushing back the edge of his coat. He had ten minutes left until his appointment began and they were late.

People passed by the alleyway, paying it no mind. It was why Tom had chosen it as a place to meet. The clinic was in a nice neighbourhood and the alleyways rarely held malicious riff-raff. It wasn't even unusual to see people smoking and chatting there, especially someone as young as Tom - who was no doubt avoiding his guardians.

His phone buzzed but he ignored it. It was going to be Antonin anyway, apologising to Tom for being so tardy and blabbering some stupid excuse as if that would sort out the problem. He always did this and Tom had come to expect it. Regardless of how many times he had driven it into Antonin's thick skull that punctuality was essential to Tom's plans, the dunce continued to show up five, ten - once a whole half hour - late. 

A set of footsteps passed by the alleyway and then stopped. Tom took a lazy drag of his cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs for a beat and waited. The footsteps retreated and a small group of men headed by Antonin entered. It would have looked like a dangerous situation to just about any onlooker. The men didn’t exactly look friendly - with comically thick necks and bodies, all near copies of each other with forgettable features. Lackies always had an air of unimportance to them, so it wasn’t a surprise. 

“I’m sorry we’re late, Tom,” Antonin began, taking a step away from the pack of men, “We had some trouble getting the men in order.”

“A minute later and you would have been in a lot of trouble.”

He cringed, “I-I know. But we’re all here. These guys are… bakers, from my father’s, uh, bakery.”

Tom raised a brow. Bakers? Just how much television had Antonin been watching recently? It didn’t matter.

“They know the plan?”

“Yeah, they do! Brought their own masks and everything.”

Tom took a final drag of his cigarette, eyeing the group of ‘bakers’. They seemed capable, at the very least. Dolohov Senior at least knew how to hire them.

“Good. Everything had better happen exactly as planned, Dolohov, otherwise we’re going to have problems. Hold your hand out.”

Antonin did so without a second though, opening his mouth to sing empty promises, but Tom was quicker. He crushed his cigarette butt against his palm, enjoying the strangled scream he let out. Antonin tried to drop the cigarette and the burning embers, but Tom’s hands, wrapped around his and forcing it closed, wouldn’t let him.

The ‘bakers’ shifted behind them, glancing at one another - wondering perhaps what to do. Tom didn’t care.

He leaned forwards and whispered so only Antonin could hear, “Never make me wait again, Dolohov. Nice things don’t happen when you do.”

Antonin nodded frantically, his mouth twisted in a pained grimace, tears pricking at the edges of his eyes. Tom let go and brushed himself down. Antonin clutched at his burnt hand, all but curling around it.

“Send them three minutes before six. And _don’t_ fuck it up.”

“Y-yes, Tom.”

The bakers parted awkwardly when Tom passed by them, like Noah and the Nile. Lackies indeed. At least they had enough brain cells to realise who was really in charge. And it wasn't their six foot tall, heavy-weight boss's son. No, it was the scrawny, black haired kid.

On the trip up to the third floor, where the clinic was housed, Tom met with a patient leaving. A nervous looking man who kept snivelling as if he had a cold. Curling his lip in disgust, Tom pushed the button for the third floor through the fabric of his coat pocket. Didn't know what kind of germs that man carried, after all. The doors opened and Tom walked through the plain looking hallway towards the desk. The plain looking secretary (what was her name again? Annabelle? Amelia?) sent him a thin, polite smile and asked him to sit and wait. He did so.

"No school bag today?" she asked as she typed slowly on her laptop. Abigail looked about eighty, with thin, knobbly fingers and wispy hair pulled back into a simple bun. It was a miracle she could see without glasses.

"No," Tom said, shaking his head and sending her a carefully crafted smile of his own, "my classes ended early today."

"I see your sister isn't here either."

The old bat certainly had a good memory.

"Ah, yes. She had a meeting to attend to. I came here myself - didn't want to miss my appointment."

"It's nice of her to bring you here every time. She seems like a nice girl. A solid head on her shoulders. Is she married by any chance?"

God, what a boring woman.

Tom's smile took a sheepish quality, "She's got her moments, she nags a lot too."

Arcadia didn't seem to notice he had avoided her question and just nodded her head in that slow, condescending way Dumbledore often did. As if she cared a whit of what you said. It was getting hard not to bare his teeth at her, but Tom had dealt with worse and persevered, this old wretch was nothing.

"That just means she cares, dearie."

He couldn't believe he was _eager_ to meet Dumbledore - if for no reason other than to leave the company of this frightful woman and her dull conversation. His prayers were answered a moment later. Dumbledore opened his door and poked his head out, face turned towards Angela. 

"Arabella, I'd like my Saturday cleared please, I've got some business to attend to at the Psychiatric - oh, Tom! Come in, my boy, I hope you weren't waiting too long? I'll speak to you later, Miss Figg."

Ah, right. Arabella Figg. The was her name. Tom was close. He was in the same ballpark, at least. 

Tom got to his feet, fighting his inner desire to lash out some verbal vitriol and instead shook his head and muttered some placating lie about it not being a bother. 

"Wonderful. I see Miss Granger isn't here today? Is everything alright?"

Tom shook his head again, making his way past Dumbledore and into his office. To think this would be the last time he'd be here. Oh, he was almost _giddy_ with excitement. A psychiatrists office was a 'safe space' - or at least that's what his last therapist had called it. Safe space his ass - he never felt more on edge than when he was forced to be in an office of this type. Choked full of decorations and books that held little to no meaning but were meant to look impressive. It was suffocating, being surrounded by so much egotistical self-importance. And _Tom_ was supposedly the narcissist. It took one to know one, perhaps, and psychiatrist had to be the most narcissistic people around. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, on the other hand, was possibly the worst one of all. 

"She was busy with work and I told her I was fully capable of getting myself here and back home."

"I wouldn't think it was about capability and instead entirely about will."

Dumbledore sat on his chair and Tom took a seat on his preferred sofa. Legs stretched out a respectable length and hands folded neatly in front of him - the picture of a polite, well-bred youth. A picture most people were distracted by, but one those obnoxious, twinkling blue eyes didn't seem to care for.

"Well," Tom began, his tone jovial, "I had spades of both today. Thought I'd make an effort to show her, and everyone else, that I _want_ to get better."

Dumbledore peered at him for a moment and then scribbled something down on his notepad. What he wrote down in that eight-by-five inch journal always had Tom curious. Maybe he wasn't writing anything at all. Maybe, instead of words they were just doodles to keep him entertained as he let out the occasional, generic leading question to drive the conversation along. _And how does that make you feel?_

"I'm delighted you found the drive, Tom. It isn't easy to accept that sometimes we all need help. And, oftentimes, it's even more troubling implementing the help you're given."

"I want to get better. For Hermione and my friends."

Tom would have been chortling with laughter if he could. What an utter joke. Dumbledore hummed as he wrote down something else, maybe about how much of a ponce Tom was being. It didn't matter anymore if Dumbledore believed him or not - in half an hour, the man and his stupid half-moon spectacles would be victims of gang violence. The planted evidence would show the good doctor had fallen among ruffians to get drugs. It was a hard job that Dumbledore had to do, and the weight of his position, of what he had to go through every single day, well it got to him. Such a shame, really, people would say. And his poor patients, whatever were they going to do now?

By the time a new psychiatrist would be found and appointed, Tom would be a legal adult and capable of making his own decisions. The primary one being that he _did not_ need some pompous shrink trying to rummage around in his head space and prescribe medications that did more harm than good.

The hour passed by so slowly, each second ticked sluggishly along, a monotonous backdrop to the scratching of pen against paper and the low murmur of their conversation. Tom was talking on autopilot, safe responses that held absolutely no weight. Dumbledore had caught on that he wasn't fully there and more than once his questions took on a more direct, probing quality.

A half hour left. Tom was talking about mindless things, the colour of Hermione's dress during the Potter's wedding, how much two parts of the Golden Trio annoyed him, the time Nagini killed Ron's pet rat. Inconsequential things, but these things were what had interested Dumbledore before. Tom considered it a parting gift - he wanted to know how Tom felt about things? Tom would tell him. Because who cared if he learnt these things? If he wrote them down? These words would never leave this room, after all. This _safe space_.

Ten minutes left. Tom grew quiet. Excitement thrummed through his veins in an exciting tempo. The source of almost three years worth of headaches was about to end.

"Tom," Dumbledore said after a long, quiet pause, "Is everything alright?"

"Yes, yes it is. I'm going to go apply for a part-time job after this."

"Oh? Where?"

"An antiques shop. It's called Borgin and Burkes."

"I feel like I've heard of it. Is it near Knight's Bridge?"

"Near Charing Cross, actually," Tom replied, his eyes fixated on a glass sculpture on the far bookshelf. It was grotesque and gaudy and perfect for someone like Dumbledore. "An off-shoot of Diagon Alley."

"Ah, yes. Now I remember. It's a bit like Camden, isn't it? Artistic and, ah, spirited."

'Artistic'? '_Spirited_'? What interesting euphemisms for a street with the word prostitute all but in the name. Nothing good ever happened in Knockturn Alley. It wasn't a _nice_ place where artistic, bohemian types sold their over-priced wares. Even if it was an off-shoot of a densely populated high-street. In essence, the perfect place for Tom. 

Five minutes left. Tom had to move.

"I'm going to be late for it too, if I don't leave soon."

"Yes, it seems our time is almost up." Dumbledore put away his notebook and folded his hands together, "Tom, I have a question. Now, you don't have to answer it if you don't want to."

"If it's within my ability, doctor, I don't mind."

"Do you love Miss Granger."

Tom's first reaction, and the one he went with, was to laugh it off, "That's a silly question. Of course I love her, she's my adopted sister."

"Well, I'm happy you love her, it means you've made quite a bit of progress, but perhaps I should have phrased the question better. Do you feel any romantic inclination towards her?"

Tom's smile froze in place. He couldn't brush this question off quite as easily.

"You don't have to answer it, Tom. It can be food for thought, for our next session."

"No," he found himself saying.

"'No', you don't feel romantically inclined?"

"No, I'm not sure. I don't believe I'm the romantic type if I'm honest, doctor. I like to see her happy and would like to avoid seeing her sad, but," Tom hesitated, wondering why he was saying _any_ of this.

Dumbledore said nothing, just sat there with his hands on top of his notepad, watching him.

"But," Tom continued after a moment, "I don't know if that constitutes as 'romantic inclination' or simple platonic affection."

"It's alright if you're confused, Tom. You've got a lot of time to figure yourself out. And Miss Granger seems more than happy to help you while you do. So don't hesitate and rely on her. After everything you've been through, it isn't surprising you wouldn't want to trust people again."

_Rubbish_. Tom relied on people to get things done - and that was as far as he needed them. It wasn't a matter of 'wouldn't' trust as much as it was 'couldn't'. Antonin was the perfect example of why - he was chronically late and more than once that almost cost Tom his meticulous planning.

It was time.

"I'll keep that in mind," he said as he rose to his feet, "Thank you for everything, doctor."

"Not at all, my dear boy, it was my pleasure." His eyes were twinkling over his half-moon spectacles, but there was something odd about them. They didn't hold their usual jovial glow. "Goodbye, Tom."

Tom shook way the thought, said his own farewells and made his way out of the room. Arabella Figg called a goodbye his way that he politely responded to and then he was pushing the button to summon the elevator. The 'bakers' nodded a silent greeting as they exited the elevator. Tom ignored them, shuffling in and pushing the command for the ground floor. As the metal doors began to slide shut, he saw one of the 'bakers' grab Arabella by her suit lapels and all but haul her over her desk while the other slammed a foot against Dumbledore's office door.

And then the doors closed and the elevator jerked to life. So the lackies were utter brutes too - the stereotype ran deep. 

Despite the 'no smoking' sign, Tom took out a cigarette and let it dangle, unlit, between his lips. The elevator came to a not-so-gentle, jerked stop, on the ground floor. Tom walked out, lighting up the cigarette before the doors were even open. Three floors up, glass broke and a woman screamed.

Tom took a deep drag from his cigarette and let out a healthy cloud of smoke out.

The pieces were falling into place. Only a few bits were left and he would finally have what was rightly his without any interruptions.

The station for the Underground was only a street away and he took his time, finishing the cigarette and tossing it a bin when he drew close. He hadn't been lying when he said he had applied for a job. In fact, that session was probably the first time he had spoken mostly truths. The dead tell no tales, after all, and those truths were safe with Dumbledore.

As he got onto the train heading towards Charing Cross, he took out his phone and sent Hermione a text letting her know his session had ended and it went swimmingly. She wouldn't believe the second part, but she would pretend to for his sake. Hermione did a lot of pretending.

After December, Tom wanted her to stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lemme know what you guys think! I'm horrible with replying to comments because I'm not wholly sure how they work on AO3, despite having used this site for years now, but I do _love_ when you guys comment! Seriously, my heart actually soars and I just have my head in the clouds for the rest of the day!
> 
> So if you want to, don't be shy to comment! Know that I read and appreciate every single thing you guys say!
> 
> Also no shade to psychiatrists and other healthcare professionals. As someone with family in both psychiatric and other medical fields, I have a huge appreciation for what they do. Tom on the other hand, does not.


End file.
